


No Place Like Home

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Background Promptis - Freeform, Enemies to Friends, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Lack of Communication, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Gladio and Ignis were inseparable from the moment they first met. When Gladio is whisked away for nearly four years, things fall immediately to ruin between them. When he returns, it only gets worse. Who gave him the right to go off and get so damn attractive anyway?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of an indistinct AU in which Eos is at peace but roles are otherwise more or less the same.
> 
> My current aim is for updates on Mondays. I've written several chapters ahead for once in my life so maybe I'll be able to stick to this <3
> 
> Go check out my awesome beta who is absolutely responsible for making this story 1000% more readable: http://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpsoap

“It’s bullshit. Like it’s  _ my  _ fault. I didn’t ask for this, you know? And of course  _ he’s  _ not the one that’s gettin’ it.” 

Ignis has learned, over a good number of years’ experience, that it’s best to simply listen when Gladio is on one of his tears. This happens to be an almighty one. Not that Ignis can entirely blame him, given the circumstances. Words have a way of not reaching his friend when he finds himself in such a state, so Ignis only nods and rocks the desk chair a little beneath his weight while he listens. 

“Just keep me away from him for a little bit, let him skin a couple knees, maybe he’ll stop acting like such a…” Gladio seems to be grasping for a word just out of his reach. Ignis nearly winces at what his own mind supplies given the current mood. Perhaps it would be better to attempt heading this off, to make a pass at soothing the situation. They are, it seems, far beyond the point of Gladio talking his way out of this one; Ignis has already heard plenty about papers having been signed and cheques written and arrangements made. Fate sealed. 

“Child?” Ignis supplies, and Gladio grunts something that sounds close to agreement. His eyes narrow, however, when Ignis points out, “He  _ is  _ only twelve. I suppose it’s to be expected.” It’s a dangerous position to take and Ignis knows it. He’s always had a softer side for their  _ dear  _ prince though, and he’s made it a goal more than once to extend that over to Gladio. The rates of success have been… variable, to say the least. Regardless of how many fair and pleasant moments the two might have managed, an impasse had been reached all the same. There’s a dull thump, Gladio’s head pressing harshly back against the wall. He’s taken over Ignis’s bed, legs outstretched and back upright, flat against the plaster. He gives the wall at his side a rap with his fist for good measure.

“Don’t  _ you  _ go takin’ his side, too. I need someone in my corner here, Iggy,” There’s something close to desperation in there, hidden well under a few layers of frustration and a fresh coat of righteous indignation. It has Ignis sighing and shaking his head, rolling his chair from the desk and turning it properly toward Gladio. 

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. There aren’t even sides to be taken. It’s not as though Noctis begged to have you shipped off.” Not in so many words, at least. As Ignis recalls, it was more of a plea that he be assigned a new shield, one who didn’t  _ hate  _ him. Which Gladio, for the record, already didn’t. But Ignis can’t  pretend that Gladio’s behavior preceding this whole mess had been angelic or indeed guiltless. He can’t pretend that Noctis, a handful of years that felt  nigh-eternal younger, had no reason for the outburst to his father. The only real shame to the tantrum had been that Clarus had also borne witness and had been so swift and harsh in his reaction to it.

“Might as well have, saying something like that…” Gladio doesn’t need to be told—and so Ignis bites his tongue on the matter—that he’s not acting particularly more mature with that line of grumbling. Truth be told, Ignis can’t quite recall which specific row brought everything tumbling. He’s not convinced Gladio, or even Noctis for that matter, can either. What he does remember, and what stands at hand, is the outcome: Gladiolus Amicitia sentenced to three-and-a-half years in the sort of boarding school that caters to the best, brightest, and highest-standing Lucis has to offer. Ignis keeps a straight face and a sympathetic ear, but his stomach is turning over on itself and he feels like he hasn’t slept since the punishment was announced.

And now they’re here, sharing a sort of farewell by way of Gladio airing those final grievances. Ignis isn’t complaining, if only because Gladio is doing enough of that for the both of them. He can’t entirely blame him for it, but there’s still a strange sort of sadness to the thought that this, of all possibilities, is how they’re set to be spending their final hours together. He doesn’t say that though. He doesn’t bring up the fact that they should be making some great memory, perhaps going out and enjoying Insomnia while it’s still within Gladio’s reaches. He only offers an attempt at a  sympathetic smile, finds himself unable to entirely contain a sigh.

Ignis lets silence settle on Gladio’s last comment before he asks, “You leave tomorrow, then?”  He already knows the answer, but the question is something to pivot the conversation if not redirect it entirely. The ask is a bit of a terrible confirmation. He doesn’t want to have it reaffirmed, doesn’t want to be reminded of the fact that, in a day’s time, he will be suddenly and starkly bereft of his closest companion. 

It’s not to say he’ll be entirely alone. Just as Ignis has grown up beside Gladio, the same is true with Noctis. Arguably, he and the young prince might—perhaps  _ should _ —be even closer than he is with the shield-to-be. There’s something more there with Gladio, though. Their relationship stands as something beyond simple obligation. Sure, being pleasant to one another was always the path of least resistance, but it was almost instantaneous that their connection pressed beyond that. If Ignis is being perfectly honest, he thinks their friendship turned genuine long before his with Noct did. Which makes this moment and this question and this future that much more painful. 

“First thing in the damn morning. Can’t even let me sleep in.” Gladio’s words are little surprise. Ignis can’t claim to be an absolute expert on Clarus, but he knows the man well enough to visualize the terse breakfast followed by a very long, very silent drive. His heart still aches, knowing full well—as he had already known, really—that this will, in fact, be their goodbye. He knows just the same that they’re not going to say that—not outright, anyway. There won’t be any tearful parting or deep words on  _ exactly  _ how they’re feeling, not beyond Gladio’s obvious anger over the situation as a whole. Ignis doesn’t exactly mourn that fact, though. He’s not bad with words so much as all the emotions behind them and he’s not certain he could say  _ precisely  _ how it is he feels if pressed to do so.

Ignis finds himself falling quiet once more. It’s less a problem of finding words, more one of finding the right ones. He could let out the truth, that he’s terrified by all this, that he feels like the floor is falling out from beneath him and the walls from around. He could admit that he’s spent the past few nights trying to devise some absolutely genius way to avoid this inevitable fate. He could blurt it all out, the uncomfortable parts, where he’s started to realize that Gladio means more to him than he has any right, that he’s terrified of  _ that  _ more than anything else. Ignis, of course, knows better than to say any of that.

“You’ll keep in touch, right?” Ignis nearly cringes at himself. Desperation is ringing through the question, something that sounds more like a plea than anything else. He fights back the embarrassment and remains just as impassive as he can manage. His eyes, however, dart away from his friend and he turns the chair slightly, so he’s not angled so directly toward him. “Text me? Let me know what’s going on…” 

Gladio grunts, another indignant display. Something about it, in the moment between the sound and his voice following, makes Ignis’s heart sink. Rightly so.

“No good on that. It’s pretty much prison over there. No cells, no net.” 

Ignis can barely look by now, but he notices Gladio sink in on himself. just a touch, from the corner of his eye. It’s another little pang, another dark cloud cast over their last day. It makes sense, if Ignis stops to think about it. Some fancy boarding school, chock full of the progenies of politicians and celebrities and royalty proper? It’s only common sense that they’d be avoiding scandal at every possible turn. Gladio’s assessment feels pretty damn on the mark, though. 

“I think I can call. Probably get something like one a day.” Gladio grunts again and shakes his head, mutters another ‘bullshit’ under his breath.

“You could write?” Ignis isn’t sure why he pushes the suggestion. No. That’s not true. He knows exactly why he pushes it. He pushes it because he simply cannot accept, cannot  _ fathom  _ the idea of not hearing from Gladio for four full years, save the occasional holiday or unlikely call. He can already imagine what the situation there will be like, a limited number of phones and minutes and Gladio with family—real, proper, blood relations—expecting with a far greater priority to hear from him. Writing, at least, that could be manageable. A few words between classes, maybe a note before bed. It’s not ideal, but Ignis is still lifting his head and offering an expression that he’s sure is far too hopeful.

“Yeah. Guess that’s the best way.” Gladio doesn’t take long to consider the idea. He lets his head lull to the side, eyes locking with Ignis’s in the process. There’s a hell of a lot not spoken there, but Ignis could swear there’s something in Gladio’s eyes too, something just as pointedly unsaid as what Ignis carries himself. He swallows against the rising lump and looks away again, gives his head a brief shake to clear it.  _ This is ridiculous,  _ he tells himself,  _ if you plan to say something, you won’t have another shot.  _

Still, he doesn’t take it.

* * *

 

The sudden departure of Gladiolus Amicitia from the royal court winds up creating quite a stir among people who find interest in such affairs. Ignis finds his gut all wrenched up anew when he sees the grainy little photo inset on one of the convenience check-out rags. God forbid any of them have a moment’s peace; there he finds Gladio, hood pulled up and hat peeking out, head ducking into the back seat of what may as well be his prison bus.

Ignis could kick himself for picking the thing up and thumbing through to the advertised article. It’s garbage, of course. A few puffy paragraphs describing the role of the Amicitia line dating back to antiquity, an official press release photo of Clarus and Regis side by side, and some baseless speculation as to what would cause the teen to be shuffled away so quickly and quietly in the midst of a school term. Their theories make him feel ill all over again, wild rumors of fights, questionable quotes from even more questionable—and unnamed, naturally—sources. A sign-off that, after slinging hasty and absurd allegations, extols the school for its prestige and the Amicitia line for their good sense in pursuing such a course. He comforts himself on the purchase by clipping the article to stuff into an envelope already addressed. 

Tabloids aside, Ignis’s life falls back into rhythm far quicker than he might have expected. He hates that. He hates that he’s back to his own classes on Monday, time and life marching on as if nothing has changed. He hates that, while the world at large only took a passing glance, he feels stuck flat on his back, unable to lift himself from the repose. He still goes for his phone, an instinct to tap out an invitation or a quick grievance to Gladio. Sometimes his thumb is already hovering over the send button before he realizes the slip in his thinking. More often though, and more often still as time passes, he only makes it through a couple words before the realization sinks in and his phone is shoved hastily in a pocket, as if he can hide his embarrassment along with it. 

Noctis, bless him, takes swift notice of the change in Ignis’s demeanor. It takes some time for him to do so, but he even apologizes, shows some genuine regret for the unintended consequences of his tantrum those weeks before. Ignis points out that it’s not his place to forgive, though he certainly appreciates the sentiment. Somehow, this doesn’t draw forth any righteous rage or surly retorts. Noctis even swears he’ll write a letter saying the same to Gladio, that he’ll talk to his father. Ignis doesn’t think that either will particularly help, but he tells Noct to follow his conscience and gives him a smile that implies a bit of pride. And he tries, from that point on, to keep his moods to himself.

That part he improves upon in time. Careful practice in the art of stoicism makes him something of a master. Ignis thinks it a good skill to have learned at some point regardless of impetus and he most certainly doesn’t see it as any sort of coping mechanism, healthy or otherwise. He will, after all, serve as advisor to the king one day. A straight face can go a long way in a conference room or at a podium or under the pretense of a meal that serves more accurately as a little bit of both. That makes it easier to justify, in any case, the feelings he’s so expertly swallowing down. 

Ignis doesn’t think that Noctis picks up on any of that, regardless. While life trudges on for Ignis, leaving him floating from one distraction to another, internalizing and agonizing and working himself to the bone, it proceeds in an entirely opposite fashion for Noct. Noct, who was a sickly child, so often bed-bound and helpless; who is only now starting to come into himself. Who has only now, finally, made a real and proper friend. 

Ignis decides he likes Prompto at once, though he tries not to let that show. He’s still meant to be responsible, a guiding figure to the young prince, and he’s not naive. Prompto has a particular air of mischief about him that seems to positively radiate from his big, blue eyes and warm, freckled cheeks. He can tell the two of them are going to make a million different sorts of trouble from the get go, even if he can’t pinpoint the specifics. The mischief is a future headache, though, reserved for when the warmth clears from Ignis’s chest at the sight of the two of them together, smiling and laughing while they make an absolute tear of the citadel. 

He absolutely isn’t going to say a word to dissuade their friendship, because he can see himself there, he can see Gladio at his side. He can see that Noct is  _ happy _ , really properly happy, in a way Ignis isn’t sure he can recall ever seeing on him before. And Ignis needs that, because heaven knows  _ he  _ isn’t _. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A selection of written correspondence between Ignis Scientia and Gladiolus Amicitia; or: a downward spiral.

 

_ Ignis, _

_ I probably don’t have to tell you how much I hate this place, but I’m gonna do it anyway. Hope you were serious about the writing thing, cause now you’re stuck with a really pissed off penpal. Lucky you, huh? _

_ So, get this shit—I don’t even get my own room. Fancy ass place like this, and I’m stuck bunking with some asshole from Tenebrae with the biggest damn chip on his shoulder I’ve ever seen. You think they’ll throw me out if I kick his ass? Can’t hurt to try, right? _

_ The classes aren’t the worst, I guess. It’s school. There’s a decent library at least and nobody bothers me if I’ve got my face shoved in a book. So I guess that’s one thing it’s got going. Hell, maybe I’ll be generous and say there’s two things. They have all kinds of clubs and sports and shit here, the kinda stuff you see in those stupid rich kid shows. There’s even a sword-fighting club, as if anyone here knows the first thing about fighting. Maybe I really will get a chance to beat the shit out of fancy pants. _

_ Anyway, how are things going back home? Hope Noct isn’t giving ya too much trouble. Fat chance, huh? Keep me posted if anything good goes down, god knows there’s none of that here. Let me know how you’re doin’, too. I know things must suck without me to keep it interesting.  _

_ The phone situation is total bullshit, as expected. You hafta earn calling cards. Can you believe that? It seriously is like prison. Bright side (Ha!) is I can actually have my damn phone back once I’m third year. So only about 500 more days of living in the stone age. _

_ Right. This is getting long. Write me back soon, this place is seriously killing me. _

_ -Gladio _

* * *

 

_ Dear Gladio, _

_ I was quite serious about the ‘letter writing thing,’ thank you very much. In fact, I’m a little bit hurt that you would doubt me. Maybe I won’t send along any of the juicy gossip after all. _

_ Your roommate sounds like quite a character. Perhaps this was your father’s grand scheme—force you to spend time with someone so insufferable that Noctis doesn’t seem quite so bad. I must advise against violence unless you truly think prison would be a preferable arrangement. I daresay they wouldn’t have any sort of sword fighting there. _

_ A good turn for you with the library, at least. You’ll have to let me know if you uncover anything worthwhile. It seems my reading list has dried up without your assistance. And though I hesitate to potentially endanger my position as clear frontrunner for best friend and closest confidant, might I suggest actually speaking to your peers now and again? Not our dear fancy cohabitator, but perhaps someone there could come close to filling the doubtless deep chasm I’ve left you.  _

_ Things here are, more or less, as they’ve ever been. Though, would you believe it, Noctis has managed to find himself a friend. His name is Prompto and he’s promising to be an absolute nightmare in time, but he does take a bit of burden from my shoulders for improving the prince’s mood. Their antics are… impressive, thus far. Even you might be entertained by the show. _

_ Iris has been turning up at the prince’s side as well. I promise I’m keeping a close eye on that situation. I’m sure she only misses her dear brother, as do we all. I suppose all this sentimentality may be sign that it’s time for sleep. _

_ Don’t murder anyone if you can manage it, I would hate to lose the hope of a phone call in a few years’ time. Meanwhile, I’ll simply await your response with what patience I can muster. _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Ignis _

* * *

 

_ Ignis, _

_ Sorry for the late reply. This place is kinda crazy. Hard to find a second to myself, let me tell ya.  _

_ You know, you don’t need to act all fancy and formal when you’re writing to me. Pretty sure it would kill you to be anything else though, so I’ll let it slide. _

_ I’m not a big fan of admitting I was wrong, but I guess things aren’t as bad here as I let on. The whole ‘actually talking to people’ thing wasn’t a bad idea, so thanks for that. (My roommate is the exception. He’s still the worst.) I even managed to make some friends. Don’t get all worried now, I didn’t forget about my boy back home. Even if I’ve been a total dick about actually getting in touch with him. Sorry, again. Look at that, a real apology. Maybe this place really is maturing me. _

_ Anyway, all the wild clubs are the real deal. I had a CHOICE of what kind of sticks I wanted to hit someone with. Kendo was definitely more my style, but I could totally see YOU getting into all that fencing shit. Fancy stuff there. Suited for someone a little faster than me. All the training back home is giving me a real leg up, but I guess it’s a little more than just swinging and dodging. Still giving all the scrawny things here a run for their money, though. _

_ Speaking of scrawny kids, good for Noct, making a friend. And good for you, having him out of your hair. I’m trying to picture it. Iggy getting some rest, Noct actually having some fun. Nope, not working. Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it. _

_ Thanks for keeping an eye on Iris. Guess I probably shoulda thought to ask you to look out for her before I got shipped off. My head was pretty firmly inserted in my ass those last few days, huh? Anyway, she needs a decent big brother and I guess if I had to pick a replacement you’d be it. Means a lot, buddy.  _

_ Not much else to report on this end. Haven’t had much time with the library after all. Guess I shouldn’t be complaining. They keep us busy here, makes the time go by a little quicker, anyway. See also: why it took over a month to write you one measly letter. _

_ I’m trusting you to actually keep up on this shit. Go knock some heads together if Noct and his buddy get to be too much, I’m totally in a place to give you permission. _

_ -Gladio _

* * *

 

_ Gladio, _

_ What a relief to hear you haven’t forgotten me, I was starting to wonder.  _

_ Only kidding, of course. _

_ It’s a proper relief to hear you’re doing better. I suppose my jealousy will have to be set aside in favor of you finding something other than misery over the coming years. If the situation here at home is hard for you to picture, I suppose the idea of you falling into friends and excelling at an art form is far less so—especially an art form consisting of shouting, stomping, and swordplay.  _

_ Kidding. Again… mostly.  _

_ I’ve come into a bit of athletics myself, as it would happen. Apparently my physique just screams ‘gymnast’ to the powers that be. Or, more likely, I spent a few moments too long looking over their booth at the fair. Regardless, it seems that a good amount of my free time will now be spent turning cartwheels. Won’t that be a fun one for you to picture? _

_ Things continue to get on. Noctis and Prompto do so a bit like a wildfire. It seems that I’m winning a secondary charge from this arrangement. It’s not so bad though. They keep each other busy and Prompto is entertaining, if an utter handful. He could certainly teach Noctis a thing or two on manners, and I only hope that habits run that way rather than Noctis influencing him. I will be certain to keep you posted on that front. _

_ It is a relief to hear that you’ve dealt with the head-ass situation. I would expect nothing less of you, of course. And, for what it might be worth, I think you were entirely justified in your reaction at the time. Still, it might have been nice to send you out with a proper party rather than a pity theme. No use worrying about it now. _

_ I wonder, should I hope to see you for the holidays? It might be a nice bit to look forward to. Do let me know, should you find time to respond before they pass. _

_ Kidding. As ever.  _

_ -Ignis _

* * *

 

_ Ignis, _

_ One hell of a way to make a guy feel like shit there, y’know. _

_ I swear I meant to write back sooner, but it’s not that easy around here. Between classes and kendo and finding ways to sabotage the roomie, the schedule gets kinda tight. I didn’t mean to ignore you and I didn’t mean to leave you hanging over the holidays (since I’m sure they’ll be gone by the time you get this).  _

_ It’s just easier to stay here this time. I don’t have to worry about extra responsibilities and midterms are about to be a nightmare. Don’t take it personally, alright? I do feel bad. I should get to come home over the spring holiday. We’ll tear it up. Make up for my “pity party” (those mean quotes aren’t fair, I know) and all. _

_ This Prompto kid sounds like you have your hands full too, though. And gymnastics? Never woulda guessed. I can see it, though. Easier to picture than you actually taking a break for once, anyway.  _

_ I promise I’ll get you a real letter soon. I hope you’re not too mad. _

_ -Gladio _

* * *

 

_ Gladio, _

_ I apologize if you took my teasing too deeply to heart. A guilty conscience, perhaps? Only kidding, really and truly.  _

_ I hope your exams went well. I’ve my own studies to focus on as well, so I’m afraid my response will likewise be a short one.  _

_ Iris is well and seems to be finding her own friends, which I’m sure will come as a relief to Noctis and Prompto, who appear to prefer each other’s company over anything else. I do make sure they are never cruel to her, but they’re young and feelings can be easily hurt. She seems to be just as resilient and capable as her brother, though, so I should say there’s little to worry about on that end.  _

_ Spring is still a distant dream, it may not be wise to plan so far ahead. That said, it would be nice to have a bit of time together if it’s possible. _

_ No anger from me, Gladio.  _

_ I’m glad that you’ve found a place there and that it seems to be treating you well. I only hope you remember you had one here. _

_ -Ignis _

* * *

 

_ Ignis, _

_ I really don’t have the time to deal with whatever you’re pulling here. If you’re mad at me for not responding and for not coming home, that’s fine, but what’s with all this passive aggressive bullshit? It’s beneath you and you know it. _

_ I tried to call and sort this out, but you didn’t pick up. Was that on purpose? I wasted phone privileges trying to talk to you. You could’ve at least told me to fuck off after the message, you didn’t have to keep ignoring the retries. _

_ Whatever. Maybe you’re just stressed out about school or backflips or Noct or whatever. Stuff gets overwhelming here, too. But I don’t see why you need to go and try to cut me off over it. Are you mad that I’m busy? Were you not really kidding about the jealousy thing? How come it suddenly feels like I don’t know you? _

_ I can’t take incoming calls that aren’t from direct family as a first year, but I’m gonna try to call you again after I know you’ve seen this. I can’t sit here and spend half my night writing a fight with you. If you don’t answer the calls, something’s gonna hafta change here. I don’t want that. I don’t want you to want that. Let’s just figure it out, okay? _

_ I have to get this sent out. I’ve rewritten it 10 times over and it’s still sounding wrong. Send Iris my love, and just answer your damn phone, alright? _

_ -Gladio _

* * *

 

_ Gladio, _

_ I hold no ill-will here, I assure you. _

_ Whatever weight you’ve put onto those words—ones I very overtly pointed out were in jest—I cannot fathom. But I also cannot bring myself to answer a call that is clearly intended as a fight. Your life is not the only busy one here, I simply managed to find a few moments’ time in mine for you. _

_ It seems that may have been foolish.  _

_ Iris sends her regards in return and asks that, should you decide ever to visit for a holiday, you bring a gift. Don’t worry, I didn’t bother to tell her how unlikely that scenario was. Hope springs eternal for her. Perhaps rather than wasting your calling privileges on me, you could reward her faith. _

_ Please don’t worry yourself over finding moments to respond if it’s such a burden. I would hate to stress you any further. Perhaps the best course is to cease our correspondence here for the time being. _

_ -Ignis _

* * *

 

Ignis still receives the calls and it takes a fair bit of mental fortitude to let them go unanswered. In the end, he turns his phone to silent and retreats into the shower, fuming. Truth be told, he doesn’t know how it got to this point. He doesn’t know how his emotions took such a stark and sudden turn, how he found himself now burning with rage and smoldering with hurt at the very thought of Gladio. 

A letter arrives all the same, a week later. He considers letting it go entirely unopened, but Noct’s curiosity does them both in. Ignis is curious enough himself, all pounding heart and trembling fingers when he works at the envelope. He hasn’t explained the situation in its entirety to Noctis, only mentioned that he and Gladio were presently at odds and he would much prefer not to discuss it.

The crudely folded letter consists of a simple drawing. A large, crudely fashioned phallus that covers most of the torn bit of notebook paper with a thick arrow pointing around the shaft and a label indicating ‘you’. Noctis, and Prompto when he demands he’s allowed to show it to him, are both terribly amused by the likeness, complete with thick little spectacles and a messy fringe at its head. Ignis wants to burn the damn thing. Instead, he hands it over for Noctis and Prompto to giggle over and decides silently and with burning certainty that Gladiolus Amicitia is  _ not  _ his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks over to my wonderful and tireless beta -> http://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpsoap 
> 
> I am absolutely struggling to keep from immediately posting every bit I've written for this story. I only hope y'all end up enjoying it at least half as much as I do writing it <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation, some hesitation, and a belated realization; or: Then who was phone?

 

Time has a way of getting away from you. Ignis doesn’t like to admit this, if only for the fact that it gives the entire breakdown of his once essential relationship with Gladio a fair basis. He has spent years—quite literally—writing and disposing of apologies on that front. Rethinking, overthinking, analyzing, and dismissing. Nearly four years of this, and for what? 

Somewhere along the line, he realized that he might not have been entirely fair. He thinks the epiphany came some time after he found himself suddenly towering over a good deal of the people he knew but certainly before his fiery imaginings turned from righteous teenaged rage to far less righteous but still admittedly teenaged leanings. 

Hindsight has given him a fair understanding of his own emotions back in that first year of separation. Jealousy was prime among them, turning his insides to bitter ash and his thoughts far from reason. Isolation played some role too, though he can even go so far as to admit much of that was self-imposed. He had every opportunity, between sport and class and supplemental training, to make friends that were not Gladio. He had every opportunity to put himself into the world and experience something other than a lingering rage over a betrayal that,he can certainly see now,was not a betrayal at all so much as two young boys with little grasp on their emotions.

Not that it matters much now.

Ignis has made every point possible to push Gladiolus Amicitia out of his mind. He’s endeavored to wipe clean any memories of their shared childhood, right up to that last day where he listened for hours on the injustice of his situation and comforted to the best of his ability. The situation isn’t entirely set against such endeavors, either. Gladio, as it turned out, would not return for holidays. He would—according to what Ignis had heard from Noctis—find work around the campus over spring and summer breaks and would dive headfirst into school activities the moment they resumed. He would thrive and flourish there. Good for him.

Ignis doesn’t think he’s done terribly for himself, either. He’s applied his full efforts to classes he could have just as easily coasted through and he’s near doubled his workload at that, with courses sponsored by the university, promising him not only an early graduation from his current spot, but an advanced standing when he enrolls properly come next term. 

He does not stop to think, until Noctis brings it up to him in the midst of their shared finals week, that this places him on firm and even footing with Gladio. Places him just in line to be unable to avoid him in a few weeks’ time.

“You’re coming with us, right?” That’s how Noctis brings it up, some time past two in the morning. He’s setting a canned coffee beside Ignis’s hefty stack of books then cradling two tall cans of some sickeningly sweet energy concoction back over to the coffee table, where he and Prompto have made an absolute mess of their revisions, “to Gladio’s graduation thing. It’s supposed to be pretty fancy. All sorts of important people to gawk at,” he says this with an elbow to Prompto’s ribs. Prompto only groans and slumps forward, face hidden in one of the open books.

“Dude,  _ I  _ don’t even wanna go, and he’s never drawn a big angry dick-Prompto.”

“Only because he hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting you, I’m sure,” Ignis retorts from the desk. He’s trying very pointedly to give every indication of disinterest in the current line of conversation. He absolutely is  _ not  _ going to Gladio’s ‘graduation thing’. Never mind the fact that his own graduation lands mere days after, that he is obligated to practice standing and walking if he wishes to participate, as if one could or should be receiving the honor if they can’t work that part out. He has not spoken to Gladio since that final letter. His stomach drops out with the reminder that, soon enough, not speaking to Gladio will no longer be a viable option.

“You can’t still be mad about that. It was pretty funny, Iggy. And it was  _ years  _ ago now,” Noctis has a sort of pleading in his voice that has Ignis making an even harsher point to press his attention to his studies. The puppy eyes are almost certainly in full force and he dare not chance a look in that direction, lest he actually be convinced by them. Noctis knows him—and his weaknesses—far too well.

“I’m not mad. I simply have no reason to attend. I have my own to worry about.” He pauses and he sighs, a brief slip of his mask, something near admission that he’s not entirely pleased with the state he’s found himself in. “And I very much doubt he would appreciate my presence.” 

That last part, undoubtedly, is true. Ignis wishes it didn’t make the blood simultaneously drain from his limbs and rush to his face to admit. He tries not to trouble himself over things like regret, but when it comes to Gladio? Try as he may to forget, they were once best friends, close as—closer than, perhaps—brothers. He can never quite wipe that fact away, can never entirely forgive himself for so easily, so hastily abandoning it.

“He asked if you were, though,” Noctis points out quickly, and it’s enough to give Ignis proper pause. It’s enough, strangely, to make his heart do a little flip in his chest and flood warmth through him. His mouth opens for a moment, eager to ask exactly in what way Gladio inquired after him. He wants to know the details, the tone, the context. He knows better than to think, however, that Noct paid much attention to that. Nor that he would be doing anything save outing his concern by asking. “And it’d be fun. A real road trip with my two best buds,” Noctis brightens there and gives Prompto another nudge. It wins him another groan.

“Your two best buds and your dad. Your dad, the  _ king _ , in case you forgot. I’m only going ‘cause you’re not giving me a choice.” Prompto doesn’t do a thing to hide his discomfort at the whole idea and Ignis feels just a jolt of sympathy for the boy. Regis is far from one to fear under any normal conditions, but Prompto has never quite come to that understanding. It’s only fair, of course. He wasn’t raised at court as Ignis—or Gladio, though he’s very pointedly ignoring that—was. He’s certainly not a crown prince who sees his father before a monarch. 

“Damn straight I’m not.” Noctis makes this point clear before he absolutely demolishes his energy drink. Ignis looks away, if only because he has the distinct feeling that there is some sort of touch, some discreet squeezing happening under that coffee table that he is better off pretending not to be aware of. 

The friendship between Prompto and Noctis began as one of legend and, damn it all, has progressed dangerously toward something altogether different from friendship. He hasn’t said a word, not to Noctis and certainly not to the king. But the situation has become more and more overt and, with a sickening feeling in his belly, Ignis realizes that he can’t play dumb for too much longer. 

He does, though, for the moment. And he does it perhaps only because his mind is still drawn to Gladio, to the fact that he’s asking over Ignis and whether he’ll be coming to whatever certainly luxurious gala the school will be holding partially in his honor. And because, well, he may be properly considering whether he  _ should  _ attend. If Gladio is asking, maybe he’s had an easier time bridging the chasm Ignis created between them. His mind tears back and forth between whether it might be a good idea and whether he’s a madman for even considering it and he finds it entirely impossible to make sense of any of the notes laid before him.

“Whatever. At least  _ think  _ about it, alright? He’d probably be glad to see you, grudge and all.” Noctis sounds sincerely convinced on that point, not that Ignis is arguing it. It’s also likely on Noctis’ mind that if Ignis tags along, a second car could be arranged for the three of them, saving Prompto from having to spend the hours-long car ride squirming around awkwardly behind the king and Gladio’s father. Ignis isn’t sure if the idea of Prompto attempting his best behavior while in close confines with king and shield makes him want to accompany the pair more or less, but it certainly is one that he’s holding close regardless.

“I’ll consider it.” He sighs his response after a moment of looking over his shoulder at the two. Prompto looks terribly hopeful, which reaffirms Ignis’s suspicions in the matter. Noctis hasn’t entirely converted to puppy dog mode, but he’s close enough that Ignis only spares him a glance before he returns his attention to his notes. “I’m not making any promises, though. Don’t go expecting anything. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to revisions. Gladio isn’t the only one approaching graduation, if you’ll recall.”

With that,  he goes back to pretending he doesn’t hear the whispers shooting back and forth  and that he can’t practically  _ see _ hands clasping together beneath the table behind him. Troubles for another time. He has plenty that are more pressing now.

* * *

 

Ignis does, in fact, consider the proposition. 

He had expected to cast the whole idea off immediately, only to find it pressing into the edges of his mind here and there over the course of the week. It serves, if nothing else, as a comparatively pleasant distraction at the end of the day, when obsession over tests would otherwise be setting in. He’s confident enough that his marks will be adequate and then some, but a little bit of worry is impossible to avoid, so close to the finishing line.

Noctis, at various points, puts the question to him again. Ignis still refuses to respond, though he’s quick to threaten the idea being discarded entirely if Noctis carries on pestering him over it. Which, naturally, only gets rolled eyes and a nice, ‘yeah, sure, Iggy,’ and more promises that Gladio really  _ would  _ be glad to see him—that Noctis even  _ asked _ .

That’s the part that throws Ignis for a loop and keeps him wonderin. He weighs the options there, the possible realities of Noctis’ words. The most obvious, and perhaps most likely, explanation is that Noct is blowing smoke. It seems as likely as not that Gladio has no idea Ignis has been invited at all. It seems more likely still that Gladio has spent the bulk of those years away not so much as  _ thinking  _ of his very former best friend. Ignis could only wish to say the same.

What are the other options, though? Ignis has thought about it enough that he knows that, just maybe, he’s misjudging Gladio. Perhaps he really is ready to bury the hatchet. Their final correspondence had been… brief, and not quite reaching height of maturity. If nothing else, it would promise for a less tense future, as the two of them are bound by duty to stand a very long time at each other’s sides. 

That last point, the one where—whatever ceremonies are or aren’t mutually attended—the two will still find themselves inextricably and permanently linked, closer and closer as time progresses, is the one that saves this theory. The one that makes him seriously consider it.

The other thoughts that swirl through Ignis’s mind are less reasoned, more grasping. It could be some grand sabotage, some attempt to turn Ignis a fool in front of any number of distinguished strangers. 

He finds it hard to convince himself of that, though, if only because he wouldn’t put it past Clarus to find a university similarly far from home and with even stricter rules set upon it; and, truly, whatever animosity he holds toward Gladio, he can’t imagine him indulging in such cruelty. 

No, he’s far more inclined to believe that he’s forgotten entirely that Ignis even exists, save for the part where Noctis seems to have been bringing him up in their chats. Clarus must be thrilled that the two of them have made their amends.

As graduation approaches, Ignis’s mind seems to spend more time rolling  over these thoughts than anything else, especially at night. They crowd in without fail when he finds himself hopeless in bed, all but begging for sleep. He can’t quiet the thoughts and, even if he could, he’s certain more would simply take their place. 

Something has shifted inside him, over the past days and weeks—over far longer than that, perhaps—and it’s not a welcome change. He’s plagued with sleeplessness more nights than not, discovers he has a propensity toward anxiety the moment he settles in for the night. His anxiety is not at all soothed on this particular night by the sudden trill of his phone.

He reaches for the bedside table, glances first at the clock illuminated on the screen. It’s well past midnight, past the time anyone has any business calling. He recognizes just as immediately that it’s not any expected—or, for that matter, known—caller flashing on his screen. A prank, likely as not. A prank from Prompto and Noctis, he imagines. There’s an inclination to thumb over the bright red ‘decline’ option, but he answers instead, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Hello?” Ignis infuses some heavy facsimile of exhaustion into his voice. Truth would have it that he’s about as awake as he’s ever been, but a little bit of guilt for the two likely pranksters might go a far way.

“Hello? Oh… oh, hey, damn, I woke you up, didn’t I? I didn’t really think you’d answer, sorry…” 

Ignis frowns at the sudden rambling coming through to him. He doesn’t know the number and he certainly doesn’t know the voice attached. It’s all deep rumbling with an undercurrent of hesitation. Is the caller nervous? Ignis wonders who exactly he’s trying to reach at such an hour and, more pertinently,  _ why _ he’s trying to reach someone at such an hour. Never mind the fact that he seemed to be surprised that his call was answered at all.

“I’m sorry, who is this?” Ignis clears the sleep from his voice as expertly as he had laid it there. He doesn’t know why he bothers, for some unknown person who punched in the wrong numbers, but he feels a strange twitch of guilt that demands an apology. Ridiculous, but he  _ is  _ tired and perhaps it’s starting to get to him.

“Seriously? You answered and you’re still gonna play it like that?” Whatever hesitance or uncertainty had been sitting in the metaphorical wires, they’re replaced with a proper indignation in the stranger’s new tone. It annoys Ignis, perhaps more than it should. It’s the exhaustion at play again, he’s sure, but he doesn’t let that bite back his response or soften his tone.

“I apologize, but I’m quite certain you have the wrong number. I’m not  _ playing _ anything.” He makes a point, in fact, to keep his words clipped and his tone terse. The right thing to do would be to hang up, and that’s entirely what Ignis intends. There’s something, though, that stops him from doing so immediately. He can’t put his finger on it, not quite, but there’s a familiarity in the speech, the patterns of it; there’s something hidden under that gruffness that he  _ knows _ . A trick of his mind, certainly, but an intriguing one nonetheless. 

“You know what? Forget it. I should’ve known it’d be like this. Don’t ever change, Iggy. Not that you need me to tell you.” The phone cuts silence after that, followed by a short pair of tones to reinforce the fact that the call has ended. 

Ignis is left in a lurch, staring at the lit screen, the unknown number, the little timer, reaching for a clue. He doesn’t need to reach, though, not really. He didn’t just know his name, but the silly little endearment of it. The number was only unknown in his phone because the contact attached had been deleted years ago, never transferred through devices, never considered as one to keep.

Ignis realizes, immediately and with a harsh sinking of his heart through the floor, that he has effectively and entirely renewed his unintended rivalry with Gladiolus Amicitia.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear beta http://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpsoap as ever! I don't know how you do it, but dang do you ever!!
> 
> This chapter brings things up to the 'present' and somehow that's making it even *harder* to stick to my schedule. :')


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of increasingly unlikely and unlucky circumstances; or: cigarette burns forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so incredibly rough when I sent it over to http://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpsoap for beta and I'm thrilled with all of the help especially here. 
> 
> Also, I'm thrilled with all the comments I've gotten on the previous chapter and apologize for not being able to get back to all of you on them. Please know that I appreciate every bit of feedback!

 

Ignis does not attend the graduation ceremony.

This part didn’t come as any surprise to Noctis, who had heard Gladio’s side of the damned phone call before Ignis was able to give his own account and had, shortly thereafter, stopped pestering him over it. Prompto was less amused when he realized it effectively destroyed any chance for a buffer between himself and the royals he actually regarded as such, but Ignis couldn’t feel too much sympathy over it. He’s fairly well convinced that, when it comes down to it, whatever tension he might have produced with his presence would only be that much worse.

He barely finds it in him to attend his own, truth be told. It’s not that he doesn’t put any weight on the event. There’s plenty to find pride in there, having finished his courses a full year early and with a good half year’s university credit compounded on that. 

He’s not Gladio though, as his mind poses it to him. He’s not going to be reunited with friends and family, not going to be so highly celebrated. As a matter of fact, he finds it a surprise when he spots a proper little royal retinue seeing him on; Noctis and, of course, Prompto come as no surprise. He’s not entirely shocked, either, to see Iris tagging along—that propensity never did change. He’s almost overwhelmed, though, to see both the king and his shield sitting at their side, even standing for his walk across the stage. They’re flanked on the free side by… well, Ignis can’t make him out properly, but certainly some guard or glaive, a necessity for such a public appearance. 

Prompto and Noctis flock to him when the ceremony itself has ended. Noct is full of apologies that everyone else had to leave in such a hurry and Prompto is all cheer and support and hearty claps on the back. Ignis finds himself smiling over it and he doesn’t even let it dampen his mood when, treating him out to the cafe later, they take the chance to regale him with stories of the  _ other  _ graduation they were fresh on the heels from. It was, as Ignis understands, a properly star-studded affair as well as a bewilderingly fancy one. He pretends to show some regret for missing it, if only out of a sense of obligation not to rain on their parade. 

“So, have you, like, seen him yet?” Prompto is the one who poses the question. Ignis takes time in responding, opting instead to sip at his coffee. He absolutely has  _ not  _ seen Gladio yet, thank you very much, and he’s doing all he can to delay the inevitable there. It’s only a matter of time, but Ignis is making a point to stretch that time to its very limits. It’s been nearly a week since his return and Ignis has made a good show of being in places Gladio absolutely would not. All for the best, he thinks.

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure.” His words drip with sarcasm and draw a look from Prompto over to Noctis that he pretends he doesn’t see. Prompto knows just as much as Noctis does about the situation, Ignis is sure, but he doesn’t know the players; not to such an extent that things like sharpened words don’t still startle him, in any case. “I’m sure he’s been well occupied settling back in. The opportunity hasn’t presented itself.” 

“I told him you really didn’t know he was the one calling.” Noctis sees through the front Ignis is attempting and ignores it as expertly as anything. Ignis closes his eyes to avoid putting their sudden roll on display and sips his drink again.

“And I’m sure he believed you just as well as he believed me.” Ignis can’t entirely conceal his contempt there. No, contempt isn’t quite the right word for what he’s feeling. Frustration, perhaps. 

The call with Gladio had been short and confusing and had left him staring at the ceiling for some time afterward, ignoring sleep in favor of his thumping heart and racing mind, running through at least a hundred ways the scenario could have otherwise resolved. Frustration was—and is—exactly the emotion. Frustration with Gladio and with himself and with the silence they’d both resolved to over those years apart. 

“Pretty much.” Noctis sounds defeated with the confirmation. His head drops a touch and he shakes it. Ignis gathers that he isn’t the only one experiencing a fair bit of frustration here, “You guys aren’t gonna be able to avoid each other forever, Iggy. You’re sorta stuck with each other. You could at least  _ try  _ to get along. You were best friends before. There’s gotta be a reason. Maybe just give him a chance.”

Ignis has to grit his teeth at the suggestion. He’s apt to point out that Gladio is just as much at fault here, given their last correspondences. He considers bringing up the letter, a happy little bow around the damn phone call, but he doesn’t. Shifting the blame will make him feel better, no doubt, but it won’t fix anything. And, as much as Ignis hates to admit it, that probably wouldn’t be  _ entirely  _ fair. He grunts something under his breath, a muted admission that it would be the best course of action. Outwardly, he only muffles a curse with the cup against his lips.

“We’re hanging out with him and Iris later on. Maybe you should come then. He wouldn’t start something in front of his baby sister.” Prompto pipes up again, and he seems very proud of this thought. Noctis, too, looks like he might accept it as a fair point. So they’re both left looking at Ignis. It’s a relief that he’s not lying in his response, not that he would have been entirely adverse to doing so, had there been the need.

“Not an option, I’m afraid. I’ve booked some training time for this evening.”

“Don’t see why.” Noctis grumbles his retort almost immediately. “How many competitions did you destroy this year? Pretty sure you’d be fine missing a night or two.” 

Ignis nearly smiles at the line of grousing. Noctis may have a point. Ignis has been working himself far harder than is strictly necessary in nearly every aspect of his life. A day off, particularly the evening after his graduation, would be well-deserved. A day off to be spent in tense silence with Gladiolus, however…

“Dedication is essential. University level is an entirely different world and I’m afraid I’ve joined the game quite late.” Ignis opts for the easy answer. He could just as quickly point out that he’s put a deposit on the space and equipment, which would not be refunded under such short notice. And he doesn’t  _ need  _ to point out that he’d much rather spend an evening with the rings and bars than he would in that particular company. Again, he isn’t even lying. He made a good space for himself among the high school gymnasts. Truth be told, however, the level of competition was low and he didn’t find himself at all out of place having joined on a whim. The fact that he took to the sport so well, found such enjoyment in it, is more a complication now than a bonus.

“Whatever.” Noctis gives a proper slurp at whatever sugary, frozen nightmare concoction lingers at the bottom of his cup, and Ignis doesn’t miss a bit of rustling under the table when Noctis’s knee brushes past his own and into Prompto’s. “You’d better figure it out though, or me and Prompto are gonna figure it out for you.”

_ Now that,  _ Ignis reflects,  _ is a chilling thought. _

* * *

 

Ignis is properly thrilled when his time at the gym comes around. 

He works himself hard, relentless, to an extent that he otherwise wouldn’t. There’s always an emphasis when he’s directly with a trainer, that voice that exists both in the back of his mind and attached usually to a person, reminding him not to push too hard. Ignis hates that voice. It plagues him in far more activities than this and he’s become especially good at tuning it out, better yet when there’s nobody to reinforce it.

He’s not foolish, however. He knows— without any reminders from the coaching staff—  that his body has limits, even if he’s loath to accept them. He pushes to an extent, but not to injury, not to a breaking point. He doesn’t need anyone reminding him about stretching, about warming up or cooling down or any of the far harder work that comes between. 

On the other hand, he doesn’t want to be told that his shoulders needn’t be aching quite so fiercely or his back seizing quite so harshly when he finishes his allotted time. He knows that well enough, but the pain is welcome. It’s a distraction from the endless roiling of his mind. 

He considers a shower before the place is locked up for the night, but there were various passers by— primarily gym staff— lingering in and out of the room while he was hard at work. He didn’t take a good look at them—such presences were far from uncommon—but he’s certain he could read their thoughts.  _ Hurry up. It’s the weekend. Can I have a life now, too?  _ They’re all perfectly kind but, to Ignis’s understanding, also perfectly overworked and perfectly ready to get the hell out of there. 

No matter. The walk from the gym to the building housing both his and Noct’s flats is a relatively short one. Summer is growing closer and the days longer. Full dark hasn’t yet properly set by the time he’s left. And, truthfully, the evening air prickling up sweat-damped skin isn’t an unpleasant sensation. 

What  _ is  _ an unpleasant sensation is the sudden and harsh burn of catching a lit cigarette to his bare forearm when he’s shoving through the front door. Ignis probably should have noticed that he was all but walking right into a man, but  _ damned  _ if he’s taking responsibility for it. He was distracted, thanking over and over the poor closing staff who had held the door unlocked for him to finish. 

The collision happens after he’s shouldered his way out, still facing the lobby and calling his gratitude. He doesn’t think to turn and face forward until there are some strides between himself and that glass door and, in the motion, his arm catches full the little cherry flame.

His reaction is immediate, opposite hand clasping over the injury while he takes an instinctive step away from the offender. He sucks in a deep gasp through his teeth and draws a muted curse along with it. The other man’s reaction is nearly as quick, a sudden jolt and a stream of apologies that follow, the words nearly stumbling over each other in their haste.

“Shit, sorry! I didn’t even see you coming out. Are you okay? Here, let me take a look.” And, with all the confidence in the world, the man takes a drag from the half-stubbed butt, flicks it aside, and seizes Ignis’s arm. 

Ignis is caught in his place for a moment, his head rushing to catch up with the pace of the interaction, dazed by exhaustion and sensation, the dump of adrenaline that accompanied the unexpected burn. 

“I’m quite fine.” These words are hissed too and, once Ignis has collected his bearings, he snaps his arm right back away from the stranger. He takes long strides away from the building, crossing to the light of a nearby streetlamp to better examine the wound. 

The mark is already pink and angry, throbbing incessantly and all but screaming, ‘ _ enjoy your new scar _ .’ Ignis only gives the stranger another look because he’s been followed over to the light.

The man stands a few inches taller—something of a rarity, Ignis must admit—and more than few wider and is casting a heavy shadow over him. It’s an imposing presence and perhaps Ignis should feel more on-guard, concerned, or even scared. He’s not. He’s angry. “If you must impose such a habit on others, it’s only fair that you limit it to the smoke…” 

The ferocity dies from his voice as quickly as it grew when Ignis’s eyes sweep over the guy. For what it’s worth, he does look apologetic. He looks a couple other things, too. 

_ Rough around the edges _ would be the first thought, with the heavy scar that runs over one eye and the sweatshirt stretched too tight over biceps, unzipped to his midsection in what Ignis can only imagine is the only way he could work it onto his body at all. 

_ Handsome  _ comes to mind next, a thought that makes Ignis’s throat seize up and his face go warm. Something is stirring to life in Ignis the more he looks at the man, and it’s exactly the wrong reaction toward someone so careless and with such filthy habits. Reason, however, does not keep his heart from taking to an uncomfortable flutter between his ribs and it doesn’t keep that blood from rushing to his face. He would look away, except…

More than any of the other things, the man looks familiar. Ignis is running through his memory, trying to fit the pieces together. He’s certain he’s seen him before, regardless of what the cigarette or the scar or the clothing might imply about his habits. He doesn’t need to dwell on it, at least, because he’s speaking again; he’s calmer now, his voice deep and smooth and  it sends absolute shockwaves through Ignis’s body.

“Ignis? Shit, look, I’m  _ really  _ sorry, I—” Ignis could fall over dead at the sound of his own name on those lips and he absolutely  _ hates  _ it. He hates even more that the ruffian knows his name, that he’s not making any attempt at introduction despite the fact that they absolutely have  _ not  _ properly met. Never mind the fact that Ignis is now left nursing an injury he’s inflicted. He looks him over again and that heat—certainly not brought on by the early evening chill—rises once more. He’s prone to lay in again, but then something clicks, and he’s worked it out.

“...I know you,” he begins slowly, and it’s not entirely true. He knows that he’s seen the man before, earlier in the day in fact, and that’s close enough. There’s a flash across those stupid hypnotic honey eyes that Ignis nearly mistakes for hurt, perhaps confusion. He ignores the expression. “New Glaive? You were with the King’s retinue…”

No, he wasn’t mistaking anything. That expression flashes again and it’s like someone slapped the stranger across the face—or perhaps burned him with the tip of their cigarette. It shifts quickly, though. And there’s amusement, a half-cocked smile that lights a smoldering little coal in Ignis’s belly. This is  _ bad _ . 

“That’s… yeah, that was me.” The tone of amusement doesn’t fade from the man’s voice and Ignis gets the distinct impression that he’s being toyed with. Worse than that, he he doesn’t mind that nearly as much as he should. It’s hard to keep his eyes off the stranger and even harder to shake that feeling that he’s missed a key point, that he’s gotten something mistaken. That smile—damn that smile—doesn’t do a whole lot to help the situation. Ignis gets caught up in it, lost in it really, and it’s horribly hard for him to care.

“And your superiors know you’re skulking around at night, burning unsuspecting civilians with cigarettes?” Ignis keeps his tone sharp, but there’s a waver to his voice and he knows that it won’t go unnoticed. He straightens his back and glances at the neat little burn seared into his arm again, a good distraction from the man himself. The response he garners is an uncomfortable sort of sound, something caught and half-cleared from the guy’s throat.

“Not exactly.” The admission is almost shy, definitely ashamed. It comes with a ducked head and a hand rubbing around the back of his neck. Ignis is properly proud of himself for landing a blow. The man recovers quickly, though. “But you’re not  _ exactly  _ a civilian, are you? Advisor to the Crown Prince and all. Actually, that probably makes this worse…” There’s a sense of the man thinking out loud. It’s almost  _ endearing  _ and it sparks more agitation in the pit of Ignis’s belly. “You gonna tell on me?”

“I’m not sure how you expect I would. Even if I was so inclined, I don’t know your name.” But Ignis finds, with another one of those uncomfortable little jolts, he would very much like to. He curses the whole situation—the sting on his arm, the incessant thumping at his ribs, and the heat curling up his neck and into his cheeks. Compound it with the fact that  _ somehow _ this new guy got himself immediately attached to the royal party, and Ignis finds he would be perfectly happy to sink through the ground and into damned oblivion.

“That’s right!” This point cheers the man and he laughs, an open and loud and hearty sound that seizes at Ignis’s chest. “And you think I’m a Glaive, too. Guess I’m safe for the moment.” He claps a hand on Ignis’s shoulder and it is pure electricity, something that rushes from the point of contact and presses through his veins, through every inch of his body. 

Ignis doesn’t pull away this time, however much he might want. He fixes the man with his most withering glare. His glasses are tucked somewhere away in his gym bag and he takes that much as providence—he’s convinced he looks far more intimidating without any barrier there. 

It only wins another laugh though, one that goes with the man backing away. He retrieves the packet of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket and puts a long step between them while he’s arranging one between his lips. “You’re a smart guy. You’re gonna figure it out eventually. Damn, just wish I could see the look on your face when you do…” 

Ignis opens his mouth to respond to this but, really, he doesn’t  _ have  _ a response. He has no idea what the hell has switched in the man’s head. For that matter, he doesn’t know what’s switched in his own. He doesn’t know what he finds so damn intriguing about him. Sure, he’s handsome; he’s well-built and has that air of danger and there really isn’t much arguing any of that, filthy habits aside. 

But the draw is deeper, absolutely magnetic. And the strange comments, the vague remarks, they’re somehow drawing him in further still when Ignis knows they should be repelling him. So he winds up staring, dumbstruck. 

The guy laughs and shakes his head and when he takes a draw of his fresh smoke, he makes a point to tilt his head back and send a thick grey trail upward and away from them.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you around, Iggy. Promise not to burn you next time.”

And, just like that, he’s heading off. Just like that, Ignis is watching him turn and saunter out of sight, a trail of smoke and chuckling drifting after. He’s worked his phone out of his pocket again to begin tapping at the screen while he walks, and even that little glow is like a flame to Ignis’s moth. 

He turns sharply away and tries to collect himself, connect some dots, but he’s still feeling nothing but overwhelmed by it all the entire walk home.


	5. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of conversations in the dead of night, or: bad luck breeds bad ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a weird and tiny chapter, I know, and I do apologize! I've not been feeling well at all the past week or so and I wanted to be able to have *something* up for y'all. This is definitely a different format and some trial and error with it and I promise we'll be back to regularly scheduled dumb boys soon!
> 
> Fun tip for anyone else trying to do this- if you insert emoji into ao3 stories it just breaks the whole story and all the formatting you fixed and you get to start all over while on-the-fly editing out said emojis! F U N.
> 
> Potential warning for chapter: more overt Promptis than has been taking place and some references to age-similar underage sex.

_ [SMS CONVERSATION BETWEEN NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM AND IGNIS SCIENTIA] _

 

**Noctis:**  DUDE

**Noctis:** PLEASE TELL ME GLADIO IS LYING

**Noctis:** I CAN’T HANDLE THIS, IGGY. THERE’S NO WAY YOU DIDN’T KNOW

**Noctis:** iggy answer the phone

**Noctis:** this is important

**Noctis:** emergency

**Ignis:** Go to bed, Noct.

 

* * *

 

_ [SMS CONVERSATION BETWEEN NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM AND GLADIOLUS AMICITIA] _

 

**Gladio:**  I’m serious. I don’t think he recognized me at all.

**Noctis:** i can’t

**Noctis:** AGAIN

**Nocts:** shit, he’s ignoring me. maybe you’re right.

**Gladio:** How the hell am I supposed to fix this?

**Gladio:** Every time I try it all goes to hell

**Gladio:** I can’t even believe he’s still mad at me. About a fucking letter 4 years ago.

**Noctis:** i’m pretty sure it’s more than the letter

**Gladio:** Not really the point.

**Noctis:** not to you, but if he’s still mad…

**Gladio:** Is he? You’re sure?

**Noctis:** dunno. kinda seems like it. he never says anything. like specifically never says anything. not a good sign.

**Gladio:** Can’t you squeeze something out? I thought you had him wrapped around your little finger.

**Noctis:** i refuse to use my powers for evil 

**Gladio:** Helping me out here isn’t really evil.

**Noctis:** he’ll see it that way tho. gonna hafta be you, big guy.

**Gladio:** That would be a hell of a lot easier if he would spend more than 30 seconds speaking to me.

**Noctis:** you deserved it this time dude. smoking's gonna get ya one way or the other

**Gladio:** Not helpful.

**Gladio:** Just.. give me a hand getting him to listen?

**Noctis:** how am i supposed to do that?

**Gladio:** If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.

**Noctis:** lemme think about it. i might have an idea. gotta do some arranging. call you tomorrow?

**Gladio:**  Don’t let me down

 

* * *

 

_ [SMS CONVERSATION BETWEEN NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM AND PROMPTO ARGENTUM]  
_

 

**Prompto:** why do you hafta fix it tho???? you werent the one who went all long range dick missile

**Noctis:** i know that. think about the alternative tho

**Prompto:** we get to keep watching them act like idiots? 

**Noctis:** yeah but at what cost

**Noctis:** do you really want them breathing down our necks all summer??

**Prompto:**  …

**Noctis:** ignis is bad enough as it is. i’m not mad he’s around, but a little time alone with you would be nice.

> (DCIM_001134.jpg SENT)

**Prompto:**

**Prompto:** you make a VERY good point

**Prompto:**  so what’s the plan?

**Noctis:** ...you mean you don’t have one? 

**Prompto:** you can’t send me something like that then expect me to think abt anything else dude

**Noctis:** ;)

**Noctis:** i dunno. we hafta get the two of them together but

**Noctis:** gladio will go along with whatever. iggy is the hard part.

**Prompto:** so we gotta come up with some crazy lie then lock them up together until they learn to get along?

**Noctis:** i can’t lie to ignis. literally. it’s impossible.

**Prompto:** can you tell him not the whole truth?

**Noctis:** ...maybe…

**Prompto:** srsly dude. we’ll just do it like on a tv show. invite them both somewhere and don’t tell iggy gladio is coming. done deal.

**Noctis:** that’s… not a bad idea actually.

**Noctis:** how do you feel about road trips?

 

* * *

  
  


_ [SMS CONVERSATION BETWEEN IGNIS SCIENTIA AND GLADIOLUS AMICITIA] _

 

**Ignis:** I’ve figured it out. Can we meet?

 

* * *

 

 

_ [SMS CONVERSATION BETWEEN NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM AND REGIS LUCIS CAELUM] _

 

**Noctis:** I was wondering, since it’s summer and all and Gladio is home. Any chance we could borrow the Regalia for a few nights? I think Ignis is due for a vacation and a half. Please. I’ll call when I wake up. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (disorganized) shower thoughts, or; The Prince and the Puppy-Dog Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple days early this week!
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone really quickly for the kind feedback on the last chapter and for sticking with me through that sort of experimental bit. It means a whole lot and hopefully it'll pay off with things starting to pop off now. ;) 
> 
> Thanks as always to jumpsoap for being a totally next-level beta and fixing my (hundreds of) weird mistakes. <3 
> 
> If you don't already, you can find/follow me on tumblr @ n0tempty. I'm going to be making an effort to post more drabbles/mini-fics/headcanons and I'm open for requests/prompts there!

 

Ignis is a mess. 

He likes to think otherwise, certainly makes a point to present himself as the opposite, but the truth is written all over and around him, inescapable and concrete and maddening. He doesn’t believe he’s always been such a wreck of a person. The calm, collected, hyper-responsible exterior hasn’t always been just for show; it hasn’t always been some well-constructed mask. He reminds himself that he graduated top of his class, and a year early at that. He recalls that he’s managed to guide the crown prince on  _ something  _ of a path toward proper kingship. He’s found himself a knack for gymnastics and for cooking and it’s nearly enough to make him pass for a well-rounded person, one who has interests outside of duty. 

None of this changes the fact.

He’s just finished his third—or is it fourth?—can of Ebony for the evening. He’s on his second shower. Wasteful, perhaps, but it helps him think. He’s grown a real fondness for a harsh, searing spray against his back and echoing white tile and an excuse to close his eyes and allow himself some inward focus. It’s not easy, not with classes and with Noctis and certainly not with Gladio back in the picture now.  _ Gladio.  _ His stomach clenches at the mere idea of him and he hisses against all surrounding steam. Just the concept of him brings images to mind, of warm eyes and broad shoulders and shapely muscle just  _ barely  _ constrained under that stupid sweatshirt. Another hiss, his fingernails digging down his hip. Distraction. He needs to think about Gladio, but  _ damn it _ , not like this.

There’s this thing he’s been doing since about halfway through his second dose of caffeine, where he tries to pinpoint exactly when he realized what had happened outside the gym.  _ Who  _ had happened, to be a bit more precise. He definitely hadn’t worked it out soon enough, before Gladio had disappeared into the early evening with his mixed air of amusement and disbelief. The realization began to spark at the back of his head not long after, though. It flared up with heated ache on his forearm, a name pulsing through his ears in time with throbbing discomfort. He thinks it was somewhere around the eighth step on the second flight of stairs that Ignis accepted what he should have known from the start. Gladio had been right. He  _ had  _ worked it out. And, to his own credit, he’s absolutely certain he did so before his phone started vibrating across his desk with a flurry of messages from Noct.

Ignis is groaning and he’s tilting his head back, letting the water soak through his hair again. It’s therapeutic, he tells himself. It’s exactly what he needs after the hell this day has been. There were good parts, weren’t there? The graduation ceremony had left him feeling warmed to the core by the presence there to see him through. There’s a sharp edge to that, though, as he recalls the unknown face at Clarus’s side. Not unknown. Unidentified. Another groan, his head shaking the thought clear.

Lunch had been pleasant enough too, even if Noctis and Prompto had managed, yet again, to leave Ignis wondering over a new potential thorn in his side. He’s certainly not thinking about  _ that  _ just now, though. His mind drifts to the workout instead, a good one, a  _ hard _ one. He had sweated out a good deal of the day’s anxiety. And then, of course, everything went directly to hell. Everything led him directly to this place: four coffees and a shower and a half and a head that is buzzing from both. 

Recounting every point of the day, unfortunately, does little to ease any of Ignis’s anxiety or slow his racing thoughts. Try otherwise as he might, the fact of the matter is that he needs to start considering what comes next rather than what has already passed. Daunting isn’t a strong enough word for that act, though. Monumental. Insurmountable, maybe. Those sound a little bit closer to the truth of the matter. And that truth, however much he tries to avoid and delay it, is that Ignis has to do  _ something _ . 

Gladio is a part of his life, like it or not. Just as Ignis is dedicated to Noctis, to his success as prince and later as king, Gladio is sworn just the same. Perhaps this isn’t a time of war and perhaps his duty isn’t quite so monumental as it might have been, but the fact remains. He and Gladio both share an obligation to the same man and, as such, he and Gladio both will have to learn how to live with one another.

The problem there presents itself again, from a new angle. Gladio, from all indications and when viewed just as objectively as Ignis can manage, has already made attempts in that direction. Noctis still swears up and down that Ignis would have been welcome at the graduation ceremony. Gladio’s presence at his own does a fair bit to cement that fact. There was the phone call, too, another attempt that Ignis had brushed aside with little thought, only to feel a gnawing sort of  _ something _ —guilt, he would later admit—when he was left sleepless afterward. And, of course, that  _ coincidental  _ run-in a few hours ago. 

There are pieces to that puzzle that Ignis wishes wouldn’t fall quite so easily into place. There are details that are only natural, only obvious, in retrospect. Noctis and Prompto knew where he would be. Noctis and Prompto also seemed to have done well enough in resuming and establishing a relationship with Gladio respectively. There was no accident, nothing unintended about that meeting, save the harsh little burn on Ignis’s arm. He presses fingers over that spot, light enough to pass as cleaning, heavy enough to send a jolt of pain running both directions away from it. It doesn’t serve as distraction so much as a miniscule sort of punishment. He’ll take what he can get.

“Gladio. Damn it.” Talking to himself may not be a good sign, but Ignis still finds the half-hearted curse on his lips when he finally motivates himself to switch off the shower. He finds himself wondering over how  _ nice _ that name feels on his lips—a relief, almost, quenching a thirst he didn’t realize he harbored. He steps out and he tries to ignore that part, tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little bit quicker when his mind paints that picture again of the man who was once his best friend. He curses over that, too, and grunts the name under his breath again while he wraps the towel around his waist and steps before the mirror.

He needs to do something about this. He needs to gather his thoughts and he needs to speak to Gladio. He needs to speak to Gladio while knowing who the hell he  _ is _ . What he’ll say? Perhaps he’ll find answers at the bottom of a fifth canned drink. Never mind the fact that the caffeine and the exhaustion are mingled in a way that make his thumb tremble a little over the keyboard when he swipes open his phone, searches out that unknown number, and types up the simple message:

> _ I’ve figured it out. Can we meet? _

 

* * *

 

 

“Anyway, dad already gave us permission to take the Regalia and Prompto’s never even been outside the  _ city  _ before, never mind down to the beach, so you gotta say yes, Iggy. I’m… begging you.”

There is a certain thing Ignis is doing here, where he’s pretending that he’s heard and understood more than a quarter of the words Noctis has spit toward him. He feels, he thinks, an appropriate level of guilt. He feels it in a distant, distracted way. He’s feeling just about  _ everything  _ in a distant and distracted way for the moment. It’s certainly nothing personal against Noct or his overwhelming excitement.

He glances at his phone; a discreet check that shows precisely what knew it would: Nothing. He has the feeling of waiting for something, when he knows there is nothing to wait for. The reply from Gladio had been quick and concise and at least outwardly apologetic. 

_ Sorry, specs. Busy today. Soon. _

Five absolutely casual, inconsequential words seared into the forefront of his thoughts, replaying before his eyes while he tries to focus them on Noctis or on his drink or on anything other than the empty screen sat on the table near his cup. It’s only fair, of course, that Gladio would brush him off. Ignis has been far from fair, and that fact continues to not just persist in his thoughts but damn near consume them. Should it be any surprise that Gladio didn’t take the message as a peace offering?

“Hello, Eos-to-Ignis, do you copy?” Ignis’s attention snaps back to Noctis and he feels a new wash of guilt over the expression the prince is wearing. He’s definitely been caught here. “Geez, did you hear anything I said?”

“Sorry.” Ignis did, in fact, hear some of what Noctis was saying. A trip. He wants to go to Galdin, perhaps to stop along the way and take in some fishing, some days in the sun with Prompto while the summer is still young and long before the worries of classes resuming are ones any of them will be shouldering. Moreover, he’s already approached the king with the request and, apparently, managed to get an approval on it. That part has Ignis just a touch wary and he can’t quite help but wonder what it was that Noctis said to sway his father. He makes a point to focus on Noctis, to mentally run through that decidedly one-sided conversation again before he speaks, “You want to go on a road trip. With Prompto. Presumably, I’m required as a chauffeur.”

Perhaps, Ignis reflects, that was a touch harsh. Noctis does something close to recoiling and he frowns into his drink, shifts the straw in a lazy circle and sighs. Ignis doesn’t mean to upset him, he doesn’t even mean to be entirely in opposition to the idea. A little bit of time away from the city might do them all some good, truth be told. Ignis can’t quite recall the last time he ventured beyond the city gates, given his decision to pass on that recent excursion. He’s simply distracted, has his mind set elsewhere, and he opens his mouth to say that but Noct is speaking first.

“I want you to come. I could’ve requested a Glaive or something if I really just needed a ride.” His voice sounds earnest, but Ignis can’t quite shake a suspicion that there’s something else at play here. He and Noctis are close, certainly. And Ignis rarely denies his prince assistance with the occasional whim. There’s a catch here, though. Ignis can’t put his finger on it, can’t even pluck out a reason for his suspicion, but he’s certain of it all the same. He’s known Noct well near his whole life—certainly as long as memory serves—and there are impossibly subtle tells. Perhaps it was the way he deflated so quickly with the perceived disinterest, coupled with something so close to an accusation. That, Ignis thinks, isn’t enough on its own, though. He has more of a plan here, something yet to be uncovered.

“I’m not  _ opposed. _ ” Yet Ignis makes a point to remain cautious in his tone and his eyes narrow on Noct. He doesn’t know the angle to take, though he has a handful of initial assumptions on the matter. There are two main points of contention in their relationship as of late. The one that comes first to mind—perhaps because it is all that’s on his mind regardless—is Gladio. Ignis can’t work out how he might factor into this particular equation though. Which leaves Prompto, who has not only already shown to factor in, but been presented as the impetus of the whole endeavor. Ignis sighs again and he lowers his head to a brief massaging of his temples.

This conversation is one quite a while in the making, whether Ignis likes that fact or not. The fact that he was surprised today to see Noctis unaccompanied by the blonde bundle of sunshine speaks volumes. Prompto is a sweet boy and, by and large, he’s been good for Noct. All that bright optimism seems to have caught, and while Noctis remains reserved, his moods have shown marked improvement. His work ethic, perhaps not so much, but even that isn’t so much the issue.

The issue is everything happening between the lines, everything that Ignis has become increasingly aware of. The issue lies in shared looks and more physical affection than Ignis would have ever imagined Noctis desiring. It comes in very specific messes that are never quite properly cleaned and—with increasing frequency—stumbling into a bedroom occupied by a sleeping mass of tangled limbs. This is an issue Ignis doesn’t want to consider, a conversation he does not want to have. But it  _ must  _ be the source of that subtle itch at the back of his head. It’s certainly the source of the strange tightness in his chest.

“You  _ seem  _ kinda opposed. What? You’re hangin’ around with me and Prompto all the time. It can’t be  _ that  _ miserable.” Noctis is swirling his straw again, crunching little clusters of ice toward the bottom of his cup. Ignis watches the motion more than he watches Noct. This absolutely was  _ not  _ what he had expected his duties might ever entail. 

“About you and Prompto…” Ignis knows he needs to choose his words carefully here. And he knows he needs to focus. He needs to wipe thoughts of Gladio, impulses to look at his phone, questions over what plans could be taking up an entire day from his mind. He needs to avoid spooking Noctis, which seems like a real threat. The straw stops moving in the drink. Ignis doesn’t need to chance that look at Noctis to know his eyes are narrowing and his mouth is gong all thin and straight.

“What about us?” There’s already an edge to Noctis’s voice, a certain defensive tone that borders on defiance. Ignis’s heart sinks. It’s a confirmation, if nothing else, that he hasn’t been mistaken in his thoughts on the shifting nature of their relationship. There would be no other reason for Noctis to raise the internal alarms so quickly. Perhaps he had even already suspected Ignis to have worked it out. “He’s my best friend. I’m sorry if you don’t like him, but—”

“I don’t dislike him,” Ignis interrupts, lost cause though it is. How he feels about Prompto, unfortunately, isn’t the issue here. Noctis knows that, though. Ignis can see it in the way his shoulders slump and his eyes cast down on the table before he can even pose the question, “ _ Is _ he your best friend, though? Rather, is that  _ all  _ he is?”

Silence falls between them with that, heavy and inescapable. Ignis wonders if he should say more, but he decides quickly against it. Noctis looks utterly agonized over the question, and that look is answer enough. Even as the one initiating the line of thought, Ignis isn’t entirely sure where to go from here. Does he go into the finer points of discretion? Reiterate the expectations and eventual duties of an heir to the throne—points that Noctis is doubtless well aware of? Lecture him on  _ safety _ ? Perhaps it would have been better not to say anything at all. Certainly it would have been easier. 

“He’s my best friend. Why does anything else matter? It’s got nothing to do with this trip.” Noctis finally grumbles a response. He sounds defeated in advance of any actual conversation on the matter and that dejected air he’s giving off makes Ignis regret bringing anything up in the first place. The sad fact, however, is that it’s part of Ignis’s job. He’s here to guide Noctis, to stand at his side, to help keep him from making mistakes. Convincing himself, and then Noctis, that this is truly a mistake, though?

“Is that so? It sounds like he’s the reason you’ve planned it in the first place.” Ignis might have been proud of himself for pressing on with the matter, if the circumstance was any other. This, though? He’s absolutely in misery and it’s more than the fact that he hasn’t slept in goodness knows how long. It’s more than the fact that he’s distracted by Gladio making the choice to shrug off a real, proper goodwill gesture. It’s the heartbreak that he knows damn well Noctis won’t be able to avoid, and that tricky balance of trying to save him from it without overstepping and taking improper control of such a personal part of his life. It’s an utterly impossible balance, one he isn’t convinced he even wants to keep.

“Well, it’s not.” Noctis is very close to pouting and Ignis has a memory or two sprouting in his mind of a far younger Noctis on the verge of tantrum. He’s somewhat grateful for the relatively public setting, though he knows that Noct is far too old to fall into a fit like he might have some years before. Still, that petulance is in his voice and it makes Ignis wince as much as anything else. “Look, it’s summer and I just wanna go on a trip with my friends. It’s nothing weird, alright? And even if it was, that’s not really any of your business.” 

“That’s  _ precisely  _ my business, Noct. You understand it’s my job to know what’s happening in your life, and to help prepare you—”

“—for the duties of a king. Yeah. I know. I totally know, Iggy. And you know what? It really  _ sucks  _ sometimes.” Noctis is blunt in his interruption and the words hit Ignis harshly, square in the chest. Noct isn’t wrong there, and he can’t be faulted for the feeling, but Ignis can’t help but take it as a personal indictment more than a typical frustration of a teen desiring privacy. He and Noct have grown up together. They’ve been nothing short of brothers. In an ideal situation, Noctis wouldn’t feel the need to keep this secret from Ignis in the first place. Their situation in this regard, though, is far from ideal. Ignis casts his eyes down to the table and he takes a slow sip from his coffee, more water than ice and flavor by now.

“I’m sorry.” Ignis doesn’t have better than a simple apology on that front and, truly, he  _ is  _ sorry. He’s sorry for the situation Noctis is in and for the fact that it will only get worse as he gets older and closer to that destiny. Ignis knows the feeling all too well, the sensation of being trapped in a situation that others would endlessly envy. Grass and its greenness come to mind as an apt metaphor.

“It’s not your fault,” Noctis allows with a begrudging grunt after a few beats of silence. He goes to twirling the straw again and he sighs. “I get it. I’m not stupid, y’know. I…” he pauses and when Ignis looks up he sees Noct’s brow furrowed, his face set in concentration, “Prompto gets it, too. It’s all gonna fall apart once we’re older. Once I’m king, or once dad finds out…” His voice trails off and his eyes lift, fix hard on Ignis’s. “So I’m asking you to just forget it, Iggy. I know it’s your job to know this, and it’s probably your job to say something. But I’m  _ begging  _ you not to push this. Not right now. He makes me happy, okay?  _ This  _ makes me happy. Just… let me have it a little bit longer, alright?” 

Ignis opens his mouth then closes it, repeats the gesture and then sighs, returning to massaging at his temples. Exhaustion and over-caffeination and whatever brought them to this line of conversation in the first place—this damned trip he still has to sort out, he reminds himself—are combining into a headache that sits somewhere between throbbing and splitting. He doesn’t have a good response. He knows what his duties are and he knows what the expectation and, perhaps most troubling, he knows what he is—or, more accurately,  _ isn’t _ —going to do about it.

“I won’t say anything, Noct. I’m begging you, though, to use some discretion. I understand that there are certain…  _ urges _ … that aren’t so simple to ignore. However, if word of this does reach your father by other means…”

“It’s not about  _ urges _ .” Noct’s voice is carrying that near-whining tone once more, but his shoulders have relaxed and his expression has calmed, “I… look, let’s just forget it, okay? I’ll be careful. Promise. And that’s  _ definitely  _ not what this trip is about anyway, so you don’t hafta worry about that, alright?” 

Somewhere at the midpoint of the plea, Noct’s words shift from petulance to pleading and Ignis, responsible as he’s trying to be, finds himself powerless to deny Noct’s request. It’s still a conversation they’ll need to have, still a plan they’ll need to make, but it’s one that can wait, he thinks, a little while longer. Perhaps that’s a bad idea, but damn it if he isn’t glancing at his phone again, swiping back to that stupid message, allowing his distraction to get the better of him.

“Alright,” he agrees, and he does so somewhat absently. He lets the screen go dim on his phone again and he drains the watery remainder of his drink before he sets his eyes back to Noctis. “Then we’ll be driving to Galdin, making use of some camping spots along the way. A long weekend with the three of us might be nice.” He doesn’t think it will be terribly nice, truth be told. He doesn’t think Noctis will enjoy the camping aspect in the least, and he certainly doesn’t think that Prompto will be pleased at all to sit around for hours on end while Noctis fishes. He doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead, his eyes narrow, because he sees Noct’s face turn close to a grimace. Ignis can absolutely sense an internal struggle there and he doesn’t stop himself from prodding, “You’ve neglected to mention something?”

Ignis watches Noct carry on that internal struggle and he feels his stomach begin to sink. He  _ had  _ mistaken something here. He had honed in on the wrong detail entirely. The trip isn’t about Prompto at all. When he comes to that conclusion, the truth of the matter falls into place without Noctis actually  _ needing  _ to say it at all.

“The four of us.”

“ _ Noctis _ .” Ignis begins scolding before Noctis has even finished his last word. 

“Don’t be mad, okay? Just… It’ll be fine. Gladio doesn’t wanna fight with you, y’know. I mean, things keep getting all twisted, but he really  _ does _ wanna make things right. I promise he does.” Noctis speaks right back over Ignis in return. He’s leaning forward and he’s saying everything a bit too quickly, a bit too loudly as well. He clearly expects a fight here but, honestly, Ignis doesn’t think he has one in him. Not after that aborted conversation that needn’t have happened just yet. Not after the night he spent obsessing over a denied attempt of his own to  _ make things right _ . He simply sighs and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken there.” Ignis doesn’t hide the frustration from his voice. He taps at his phone again, any excuse to keep his hand moving and his eyes away from Noct’s. Just another conversation he doesn’t want to have, laid neatly before him and impossible to escape. He wonders, a brief little flight of imagination, if he could quite literally make a run for it simply to avoid thinking any further on this particular matter.

“I’m definitely not. He feels really bad about last night, burnin’ you and all.” Noctis’s words would come as a surprise if Ignis believed them for a moment. He looks at the message again and he shakes his head though.

“I tried to arrange a meeting.” It feels like a confession of something terribly shameful—pitiful, even. How bad could Gladio really feel, if he was always shrugging off Ignis’s attempts? How much can Ignis  _ blame  _ him, after any previous tries at contact had failed so spectacularly, and at Ignis’s own fault?

“Today?” Noctis tilts his head and he furrows his brow. “He’s busy.” 

Somehow those simple words, the ones that Gladio himself had already sent, make Ignis’s head lift, make a little bit of the life return to his body. It’s ridiculous, of course, that he should believe Noctis on this matter over Gladio. But with such a strained relationship, with the obsession that Ignis had fallen victim to, perhaps it isn’t surprising.

“That… was his excuse, but—”

“No but. No excuse,” Noctis, for once in this damn conversation, cracks a smile, “he’s got something goin’ on with his dad. I dunno what, he just said family stuff, and not to bug him…” Noctis’s voice trails and his expression dims and Ignis thinks that both of their minds are wandering in the same direction once again. “...Figure he’s visiting his mom.”

That idea, the conclusion Ignis had drawn from such a vague description and without Noctis’s assistance, makes his stomach roil and his head bow again. It brings guilt rushing over every damn inch of him, drowning, burning him with shame. He doesn’t have a response at first and it seems like Noctis doesn’t either, doesn’t have anything to say about such an assumption other than to set it forth in the first place.

“Right. I suppose it’s been some time.” Ignis wants nothing more than to move on from this subject. Neither he nor Noct have any great aptitude for conversations requiring emotional depth. Moreover, they lack any of the fond maternal memories that Gladio harbors. It’s far too easy—more shame, on that front—to find jealousy over such thoughts.

“Yeah…” Noctis is shifting a little bit in his seat. Ignis can hear the light rhythmic rattle of the table where his knee bounces against it. They’re both ill at ease here, both out of words. Ignis forces himself to say something, anything to break the silence.

“I’ll just have to wait for our trip to sort things out, then.” 

It feels like an enormously terrible idea, but the smile Noctis immediately flashes turns that thought to nothing more than a passing and inconsequential concern. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best-laid plans; or: Things go (back) to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, there's been one heck of a delay, but here I am and here you all (hopefully) still are! I can't make promises as work continues to be heavy and taxing, but I'm going to do my best not to put a month between this chapter and the next. Story tags will be changing after this chapter so please keep an eye on that!!
> 
> I'm also kickin', as always, [on Tumblr.](https://n0tempty.tumblr.com/)

There is something to be said about plans, however well-laid they might be, and the responses of the gods toward them. 

The particular well-laid plan that Ignis had in mind would have put him in the far back corner of the sporting goods shop with Gladio at his side. It might have seen them to lunch, might have heard them with a conversation that was more than terse misunderstanding and the occasional potshot. It might have marked the beginning of reconstruction on a thoroughly burnt bridge. 

The gods' response turns out to be Prompto Argentum, with a well-laid plan of his own.

So, instead of trying to mend fences and force out a thoroughly rehearsed apology, Ignis finds himself in the far corner of that same shop with Prompto questioning what the difference between one brand of sleeping bag and another could possibly be, short of a digit or two on the price tag. Gladio certainly wouldn't be filling empty air with such thoughts.

"Some things are worth paying a bit more for. If you skimp on this, don't expect any sympathy for your sore back.," Ignis tries to keep his words friendly, teasing, but he doesn't think it quite works in regards to Prompto. He gets a stilted bit of laughter in return, just a quiet forced chuckle, and then silence. He finds, almost at once, that perhaps Prompto's inclination toward filling that silence with whatever mundane thought might pop to his head is a preferred one. When he speaks again, in any case, Ignis is left torn between perturbation and guilt over the shift.

"You don't really like me much, huh?"

He glances over to find Prompto's shoulders slumped while he kneels, playing at the price tag on a sleeping bag that he certainly has no interest in the details of. It's a bit of a wrenching scene, made far worse by the flat defeat in his tone. He's surprised, really, that his heart suddenly aches so heavily for him.

"That's not true." But perhaps the way that Ignis pauses to consider his words gives some other impression. He has the distinct feeling, in any case, that Prompto isn't ready to believe him with just that reassurance. He takes a deep breath and, slowly, he sinks to squat beside Prompto. It's awkward, with their shoulders brushing just a little bit. Ignis pretends, too, to be very interested in one of the selection toward the bottom of the rack.

"It's okay, Iggy. I get it. Gotta be a pain, dealin' with me too, when you're already supposed to be doin' so much for Noct." That little awkward laugh follows and Prompto glances at Ignis with a forced, half-hearted smile. There's that jolt again, just between Ignis's ribs, and he sighs at it.

"Actually, you tend to make that quite a bit easier." Ignis drops the pretense of examining temperature ratings on a bag very specifically marked for a child's use and turns his attention fully, obviously, to Prompto. "Noctis… has a tendency toward isolating himself. Your friendship seems to have taken some steps toward curing the proclivity." He even offers a smile, warm and careful and genuine. "Which isn't to say that I wouldn't appreciate just a  _ touch  _ more discretion from both of you in some regards. But I appreciate you, Prompto. You make him happy," and he puts a hand on Prompto's shoulder while he makes a point of turning his attention politely away from the flush on the blonde's cheeks. 

"You really think so? I mean, that I make him happy…" The hope expands through Prompto's voice like a bubble and Ignis, even if he  _ were  _ only blowing air into that idea—and that is far from the case—doesn't think he would dare to burst it.

"Without a doubt." Still, caution remains in Ignis's voice. He doesn't miss the fact that Prompto has decided to set his focus far from Ignis's less-than-subtle implications. That conversation is, with both of them it seems, something of a non-starter. Perhaps he should be frustrated by the fact, but Ignis can't deny that out of any conversation he cares to have—necessary or not—it ranks far from the front. 

"And you don't hate me?" That damned hope, it absolutely strangles Ignis. He squeezes Prompto's shoulder before he stands again and he offers a hand out to help Prompto back to his feet as well.

"I don't hate you," he confirms., "Do I really give that impression?" 

"...I dunno…" Prompto hesitates with that part and he frowns, focused on thoroughly wiping any dust from his knees, "I mean, not really, I guess. Noct's kinda my only friend though…" His voice trails, falters for a moment before he carries on, turning those wide eyes to Ignis, "I'd really like it if you and Gladio were too. I know I can be a pain and there's some stuff…" He pauses and his brow furrows, giving the impression of thoughts he, too, doesn't much care to explore. "...I know that he's gonna finish school and he'll still be a prince and it'll mean even more then. And I know there's not really gonna be room for me then, too. And what we're doin' right now, that's probably pretty stupid. But I wanna make him happy. And  _ I'm  _ happy. And I wanna be friends with you guys too, and—"

"—Prompto," Ignis feels the need to interrupt. He has the distinct impression that, should he allow Prompto to continue on this line, blurting this endless stream of words, he might never stop. He's smiling though, something warm and edging into affection. Prompto is earnest and, though Ignis feels that hint of guilt once more to think so, just a little bit pathetic. He has the puppy dog eyes down to a science on top of all that and the overwhelming sense is that, really, he wants Prompto to be happy as well. "Let's not worry about that just now. We're friends, okay? Don't worry so much about it." 

Prompto's eyes widen for a moment and his uncertain smile spreads to a full grin. He gives a little rock on his heels and he nods, then flashes a thumbs up right along with all the dazzle of teeth and dimples and freckle-dusted cheeks. For just a moment, Ignis thinks he understands precisely how Noctis found himself in such a predicament.

"Gotcha! No more worrying. I mean, I'm  _ really good  _ at worrying, so I probably still will, but I'll try to focus on other stuff to worry about."

"I suppose that's the most I can ask." Ignis chuckles and, against all his better judgment, he finds himself utterly endeared to Prompto in that moment. Perhaps it wasn't fair for him to be so adverse to the swap in their shopping plans. Sure, his fears of long stretches of awkwardly shared presence were well-founded, but they've come to an understanding all the same, perhaps one as much-needed as the understanding he hopes to reach with Gladio.

"I'll do my best," Prompto pauses, and brushes his fingers over one of the boxes in front of him, "I was trying to help you out, y'know. I figured you were probably still tryin' to avoid time alone with Gladio…" That admission doesn't come entirely as a surprise to Ignis, but it does touch on a point of frustration pretty damn expertly.

It's his own fault for giving off such an impression. He had, after all, been trying diligently to avoid Gladio for some time. And, on the occasions where he  _ wasn't  _ attempting at avoidance, things had such a tendency to fall apart that he tended to wish he had. 

This time, he had been so convinced though, would be different. He had spent a night or two—or many more, in perfect honesty—going over the subject in his head. There were sharp blows to his pride and deep sinking feelings in the pit of his stomach. 

(There were other thoughts, too. There was the image of Gladio in the early twilight outside of the gym. There was a photo Noctis had sent via text, of a perfectly sculpted torso with absolutely breathtaking ink newly scrawled across. There were feelings that he didn't want to entertain, swirling around with those images, that all came to the same not-so-neat end.)

He would apologize to Gladio. He would admit some feelings that he had never intended to and, with a little bit of luck, he might even be able to start the slow climb back to friendship. That idea is still leaving hollow, cold pangs in his chest. He can't question how things fell apart so thoroughly—he knows that answer far too well—but he can wonder to no end as to whether they can be repaired.

"I appreciate the concern." Ignis is back to that formal attempt at politeness with Prompto. He really and truly  _ does  _ consider—or is starting to, in any case—Prompto a friend. That doesn't mean that he's taken full grasp of the best way to behave around or speak to him, though. It's hard to deny a certain sensitivity there, given their most recent exchange. The idea of honesty in this context, of even implying that Prompto had laid some great plans to waste, leaves a certain bitterness on the tongue. "I suppose I'll have to swallow my pride soon, though. If this trip is to be anything but a nightmare, he and I had best be on speaking terms."

This admission, perhaps unsurprisingly, has Prompto perking up. He smiles to Ignis again and repeats the little rocking bounce from heel to toe and back.

"Woah! Awesome! I mean, yeah, that's totally true. He'll be relieved. Big guy's  _ totally  _ been stressin' out about it, y'know."

"Is that so?" Ignis isn't quite so quick to believe  _ that  _ sentiment. He's had to admit, painful as it is, that Gladio has made more attempts than he at repairing the situation. That doesn't mean Ignis is entirely convinced. Perhaps it's simple stubbornness, a purely human need to believe that he is not  _ exclusively  _ in the wrong in this—or any—given situation. He doesn't want to think too much about it, though. What he  _ is  _ thinking of is how quick Gladio was to change those plans in regards to shopping together. From Ignis's admittedly limited perspective, it could only be taken as a relief on Gladio's part.

"Definitely, dude. I mean, it's Gladio, he's not super great with feelings or whatever, but I think he's pretty bummed out about how things are between you. That's what Noct thinks, too." Ignis can't help but to smile at the tacked-on addition, the idea of Noctis supporting such a theory. It doesn't do quite so much as Prompto likely hopes to reassure, but it's still something, and it's still a point that Ignis at least tries to take to heart.

"I can only hope." Even Ignis is aware that there's a hint of bitterness, a sort of disbelief in his voice that is apt to deflate Prompto's enthusiasm in some great rush. So he shifts, on his feet and in his thoughts. "Perhaps we could invite him and Noctis for lunch? I think we're nearly finished here," he offers up the suggestion and, with a moment more of consideration, he begins to load sleeping bags to the cart. Prompto's  _ assistance _ on that front had always been, after all, more as company and a sort of sounding board than to provide any great insight. If that fact bothers him—and it hasn't over any of the other supplies amassed in their small cart—Prompto doesn't share the fact.

"Yeah! They're probably  _ starved  _ after gettin' stuck with the groceries." Prompto is still beaming, and Ignis decides that's a good thing, if something of a close call. He nods his confirmation when he goes to his pocket for his phone. He'll simply tap out a message, a brief invitation to both, and if Gladio doesn't wish to join, he'll be free not to. It's simple, straightforward, without any  _ proper  _ risk. So why does Ignis suddenly feel his heart thumping so heavily against his ribs, or notice just a twitching sort of tremble when he withdraws the phone?

His face sinks at once though, when the lock screen is passed and a happy little 'no service' notification sits at top of the screen. There's a curse under his breath, something related to a jumping pulse and a tension in his stomach and the fact that they're relegated to such a far back corner of a store where, of course, no signals can make through. He flashes the screen over to Prompto, who checks his own phone only to find the same.

"I think we're finished here, in any case. You can call Noctis once we've checked out." Ignis considers it something of a compromise, and certainly one that releases him from some of that heavily settling worry. There's no excuse for such a response, no reason in the world that the mere thought of contact Gladio directly—never mind spending a meal staring him down—should cause such stress. But there he is, his fingers drumming the cart as Prompto chirps his agreement and they make their way back to the front of the store.

It's at the midway point to the checkout that Ignis's phone starts sounding. It's not a single missed message or ignored call either, but a veritable cacophony of negligence. He frowns at the disturbance and he makes an attempt at changing the phone’s settings down to vibrate through his pocket. They couldn't have been in there too long, he's sure of it. Maybe twenty minutes, half an hour at the far outside? And still, as they start unloading their selections, his phone is buzzing again, irritating at his thigh. He doesn't do much to hide his exasperation, eyes rolling and sigh heavy when he finally withdraws the device again. 

He freezes in place and the expression that crosses his face gives Prompto some pause. There's a missed beat, one where Ignis's mind is scrambling through a reason he would be staring down a call from the king.

"I need to take this," is the most explanation he can give Prompto, phrased somewhat like an apology. He fishes for his wallet and hands it over before he excuses himself outside. There's a strange sort of sinking, something heavier and more present than the stress that washed through him over the idea of contacting Gladio. Regis doing the calling himself… It's unheard of. It has him drawing in a deep breath when he slides the call indicator to 'accept' and lifts the phone to his ear.

"...This is Ignis." It's a shaky greeting, betraying all of the balance lost to the ID on the phone. Certainly, it's Noctis simply borrowing his father's phone for some unknown reason, isn't it? It must be. However—

"Good of you to take my call." Ignis was never in full understanding of the meaning when there was talk of blood draining from one's face, but he's intimately familiar with it in this moment. His heart feels lodged and paused at the base of his throat, courtesy of a voice that borders just at the edge of familiarity.

"Majesty!" It's all he can do to offer a belated gasp of the title. "My apologies, my phone was—"

"—of course. I wouldn't suspect you'd purposely ignore me. I'm afraid this is somewhat urgent." The king's voice is not one Ignis knows intimately, but there are certain markers there that he cannot ignore. Composed and regal though he might be, there is a sharp and snapping quality and a clipped pace that do indeed betray urgency; more than that, they betray concern. "There's been an accident."

Something goes blank in Ignis's mind, something about the words that seems to preclude them from making the leap between sound and meaning. The sensation is reminiscent of white noise on a screen or a radio between stations. Prompto is at his side—Ignis can't specifically say when he even left the store—and something is clearly betrayed in Ignis's own composure as well, the way his face goes so immediately to concern.

"An accident," Ignis simply repeats the words. His throat is sandpaper and his tongue is sticking at his mouth and all at once he feels quite like the world is falling away around him. When he speaks, it has Prompto suddenly demanding what's happening, begging for some information. Or, he suspects that's what he's doing, because he's making sounds and Ignis hears his own name in them, but none of the rest reaches him.

He manages out a 'yes sir' and 'we'll be there at once' in the proper moments, or at least close to them. The information is going quite over Ignis's head, replaced by a buzzing, numbing sense of panic. They need to get to the hospital. Information has already been forwarded. He would be updated when he arrived. Formal words, hints of concern even in the king's voice, and a part of Ignis's brain that he simply never had occasion to know existed shifting into gear so that he might actually absorb any of this and formulate a plan around it.

There is a moment of still silence when Ignis ends the call. Prompto is speaking still, grasping at his sleeve, and the words are finally starting to formulate into meanings. The moment when he can switch into action, when his mind stops stumbling through panic and confusion, is so stark a change that he swears he could count it down to the second. Ignis turns and he brushes Prompto's hand away. He's curt, his face cut into the most neutral—if still strained—expression he can muster.

"Noctis and Gladio have been in an accident," the words are as dry and emotionless as his expression, but Ignis is not wasting time now that he's of the mind to do anything but. He begins walking without another glance, only assuming that Prompto is following. He is, of course, and spouting off an endless line of panicked questions. 

"Are they okay? What happened? Where are they? Are they hurt? Obviously they're hurt, the  _ king  _ called you!?" Some part of Ignis aches for the boy, just as much as he does for Noctis and Gladio themselves. His distress is as apparent as any of his feelings tend to be and there is some inclination bred into Ignis—doubtless a relic of all the years spent comforting a far younger Noctis—to soothe. It's not a conscious thought that reminds him they don't have time for such exchanges; he's running on autopilot here, thinking of a million different things all at once and somehow still nothing at all.

"We'll find out soon enough." Ignis doesn't so much as attempt to inject emotion to those words. He's laser-focused, razor-sharp. He clicks at the fob in his pocket to pop the trunk for Prompto to load and he's entering and starting the car without another word. He's moving, acting, entirely on that same instinct that drove him into action to start and, even when Prompto is chattering again upon entering the car, Ignis can't move himself to respond.

He can't listen to Prompto at all, truth be told. His entire focus is set to the road and to the cool computerized voice directing him the shortest route from their location in the shopping district toward the hospital. It's not a drive he's taken before, not one he's ever had occasion or care to take, and he  _ needs  _ that focus to make it. He needs that focus to hear the manufactured voice over the incessant throb of his heart hammering through his ears and the harshness of his own breath while he continues that ride between perfect composure and utter chaos.

All considered, the drive doesn't take long, no matter what number of eternities it feels like. Ignis should be grateful for that, he supposes, but he's left sitting in the car for a moment once they've parked and the engine has been cut, still as stone and staring near sightless at the behemoth of a building before them.

"Iggy…" Prompto had gone quiet at some point through the ride, though Ignis hadn't managed to notice until now, with that quivering offer of his name only barely sounding over his phone informing them 'you have arrived'. As if they hadn't worked that much out. "...it's...gonna be okay, right? They're fine. They… gotta be…"

A more coherent Ignis, one not so distracted, not so distraught, would have doubtless managed to pluck the plea for reassurance from Prompto's words. Ignis as he is, a being who only borders on humanity for the cold compartments his brain has created, disregards it entirely.

"I don't know," he says sharply, an edge that he sees cut right through Prompto in his periphery. His jaw tightens and he nearly manages an apology. Nearly. Instead, he remembers to unclench his hands from the wheel and unfasten his seatbelt. He plucks his phone from its dashboard mount and thumbs back to a message informing them where to go. "Prompto. In the glovebox, please. There should be an identification badge."

"On it!" Prompto's voice cracks and Ignis doesn't miss—though, again, he barely regards—the way fingers are trembling and struggling to open the latch and search through the contents. The card lies atop documentation regarding the car as well as some half-completed dossiers Ignis had intended to present to Noct sometime before their trip. That consideration nearly drags him again from his state of robotic hyper focus, but he brushes it off to take the identification when Prompto offers it over and clip it neatly to his lapel. 

"What is it?" Prompto has to trot to keep up with Ignis now that he's made quick work of exiting the car and long strides toward the A&E entrance. Ignis doesn't break his stride for response, though he manages to consider before speaking—a rarity given his current state of mind.

"Both Noctis and Gladio hold special rank. It's likely their fathers have been given private accommodation as they wait." He stops himself, stops in front of those sliding doors and waits for Prompto to catch up. Another crack in his demeanor, a sigh, while he watches Prompto try to interpret any of those words to get to a proper answer. "It signifies my position as retainer to the prince. Without it, getting our answers would likely prove impossible." He pauses once more here, a new consideration coming to mind. "It's best if you simply stay at my side. Silent. Understood?"

"Ah, right. Roger. Consider my lips sealed." Prompto straightens his back and he makes a sort of zipping motion across his mouth and Ignis wonders whether that could possibly be a good sign when counting odds of Prompto being allowed past that first waiting area. He doesn't bring this point up and he hopes, quite fervently, that he doesn't need to. He nods and, after a moment's further hesitation, he leads them through those doors.

There's a certain trick that Ignis has learned over years of tending to business in and around the Citadel, and that is to always look as though you belong. It can be a difficult position to assume—doubly so when one feels so starkly out of place as he does. His experiences with hospitals are blessedly few and cursedly poor, uncomfortable, anguished memories. It's a point that he endeavors to press from his mind while he reads at his phone again before properly taking in the layout of the place. What few memories he does have of this building are not centered—not even adjacent—to this particular lobby.

Again, Ignis is leading Prompto without a word. The lobby before them is a bustling nightmare, the sort of place that it is all too easy to be disoriented by. It is dominated by a reception desk some feet before them, with doors beyond that swing open and shut, nurses peeking out to call agonized patients from their spots in cramped rows of metal seating. Hallways stretch to both the left and right before them, identical and endless, with doors marked by tiny signs, too indistinct and nondescript to offer any real guidance.

He's ready to go to his phone again, perhaps even to make a call back to the king for some guidance, when he spots the Glaive seated at one of those long benches opposite and facing the entryway. He and Prompto are likewise noticed and recognized, it seems, as the man rises to approach them. 

Ignis can practically feel the way Prompto goes tense and straight-backed. He needn't glance to his companion to see eyes widening and expression erring toward terror. A fully uniformed Glaive is a rare sight indeed, particularly in such a time of peace as they have long been enjoying. For someone like Prompto, a commoner thrust only to the periphery of royalty, intimidation would be chief among impressions from such a uniform.

"Master Scientia." Ignis realizes, in a way that is somewhat vague and hazy, that he knows the man. It's only natural, given the time he's spent at Noct's side over the years, through state meetings and events, often surrounded by that most elite royal guard. He can't place a name to the face, but it doesn't seem important. Noctis and Gladio and their wellbeing is chief—and singular—in Ignis's current concerns. "His Majesty sent me to escort you," the Glaive informs with a nod. He spares a glance toward Prompto, who is still stark still and at attention. "You are?"

Prompto, bless his poor, terrified soul, follows Ignis's instruction to the letter and does not speak. More realistically, Ignis supposes he's not  _ able  _ to, given the overwhelming stress of the situation. Ignis has seen the boy crumble over a particularly vital midterm. Standing before a guard, wondering over his best friend's—more than that, Ignis regretfully reminds himself—very life? Reality is sneaking in around the edges of Ignis's thought and he feels a sharp jolt of sympathy in the moment. He nods to Prompto, a sign that it's okay to speak, and already they're being led down the left hand hallway before he can manage his introduction.

"Prompto—" He pauses in his introduction and Ignis glances to see that terror still stricken on his face—"uh, sir…" It would be endearing, comical even, to see the way Prompto is floundering over something so simple if it weren't for the gravity of the faced situation. Blessedly, miraculously perhaps, the man guiding them cracks just a hint of a smile while they walk.

"Nyx." the introduction from the Glaive is much the same as Prompto's in theory, though holding all the confidence that the prior lacked. Ignis appreciates it twofold. He's glad to hear someone with some assuredness—a quality he and Prompto are both sorely lacking in this moment. Moreover, his brain had been itching for a name, trying to place identification to the face, and he had little desire to ask. He would have worked it out, had he any great hold of his thoughts. He had none of the like though, and so the simple word, the name comes as a relief even if silence falls for the rest of their walk.

Ignis thinks they've been moving forever, though realistically, it's more likely the anticipation that stretches the hall so endlessly before them. There is a second Glaive standing watch at the door Nyx stops them before and she offers a curt nod at their arrival. 

"His Majesty and the Lord Shield are inside." Nyx doesn't need to announce it, but it's another small touch Ignis is grateful for. A final moment to collect his thoughts, to try and muster up some expectation for what they will face.

"Do you have any word on their conditions?" Ignis's voice pitches low, as if such a question is being posed in deep secrecy. Perhaps it is. He should be walking in with confidence and without hesitation, to face his king and receive the news directly. He feels terribly heavy though, his fingers trembling at his sides and his eyes struggling to meet that marginally familiar face.

"Way above my pay grade." he has the good grace of sounding apologetic at least, and his partner holding guard offers an expression that reflects the same. Nyx shifts on his feet, a quick turn so that his back is against the wall. He regards Ignis and Prompto both again though and adds, in a tone that likewise borders on conspiratorial, "His Majesty is in a state. It's… disconcerting. I don't know how else to put it."

"It's  _ weird _ ," his companion corrects, her voice low as well, "but he must be overwhelmed. Even royalty is human."

Ignis is inclined to press for more information, to question exactly what is so weird or disconcerting about the king's demeanor. He's already lingered long enough though and, to be more frank, risked exposing an improper line of conversation just as far as he's willing.

"My thanks." He nods to them, curt and composed as ever, even if that facade is so near to crumbling. He offers the same gesture to Prompto, his hand on the door. "I suppose we'll find out for ourselves." And he presses forward, bereft of any further excuses not to. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concern, condemnation, and amends; or: Prompto is living in a very special hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life and depression happened and so did a month since I updated last. I know this turn of events has not been popular, so I appreciate more than ever anyone sticking with me here.
> 
> [tumblr.](http://swordliliesandebony.tumblr.com)

The disconcerting mood that the king is supposedly harboring does not strike Ignis as disconcerting at all. It is, in fact, quite typical for the king. A fresh young Glaive—perhaps any Glaive at all—would have no means to know as much, though. Likewise, Prompto has no concept, has taken no preparation for a meeting such as the one they're facing when they walk through the door.

Ignis is swept up first, a rough embrace with a visitor's badge and heavy pins and fancy buttons pressing into him at odd angles. Perhaps he should be more fair to the concerned guards at the door. The warmth, the distantly familiar scent, they take Ignis momentarily back in time. He's just skinned his knee in the Citadel's endless hallways. Or he's staring at the top of a wardrobe with frustrated tears in his eyes while Noctis staunchly refuses to warp back to solid ground. He's being swept up by the king for comfort, something that he certainly hasn't experienced in a good many years.

The sudden cold, empty sensation when Regis releases him catches Ignis off guard. He's still in shock—something he might recognize if, well, he  _ weren't  _ still in shock. The edges are going blurred and indistinct and there is a part of Ignis, beyond all of well-honed focus and put-on composure, that is threatening to fall apart. He doesn't allow it. He dons a well-formed mask, casts away any outward emotion, and offers a nod to Clarus. The older man is wearing a similarly composed expression, though perhaps better formed, more practiced. Ignis admires it, though it's not a point he can make out loud. The subtle gesture is returned though no words are exchanged.  

The room itself is familiar, in a sense. Ignis is reeling through memories again, recalling being considerably younger, fidgeting in one of the chairs against a similar—was it the same?—wall. He remembers seeing that same tension biting at Clarus's jaw, that same stony expression donned with a sort of precision that was nothing short of inspiring. These small waiting rooms, private and well-guarded and separated by long stretches of hall from the general nerve-ridden public, are scattered throughout the hospital. Proximity to the Citadel, to the heart of Insomnia and of Lucis as a whole, all but begs it. Perhaps they are all identical. Perhaps they all carry that facsimile of warmth with paintings of flowers and small tables with tissues and chairs with big soft arms that pray you doze off in them.

Perhaps that similarity strikes Clarus too, but he doesn't show it. Ignis hopes he doesn't, either. He can't hide all of his emotion, though, hearing the king speak. Bidding Prompto to rise from an overzealous bit of bowing. Regis drawing the boy up into an embrace just the same as he did Ignis. Prompto's eyes huge and bewildered and searching at Ignis's. Wet around the edges. A threat of poor weather. Ignis doesn't know how to provide comfort from the king's attempts at the same. He doesn't dare chance a sympathetic look. There is a facade to maintain here.

"Your Majesty." Ignis stands at attention, because it's the thing he's been taught to do. Because it's the only thing he knows to do. He stands toward the king and he feels the Shield's eyes boring into his back at the same time. His voice isn't so steady as he would like. It feels like a failure. Many things feel like a failure, like they're weighing impossibly on his lightly lifted shoulders. Prompto stands stark straight too, when he's freed from the king's affections, though Ignis suspects it's more because he the tension in his body simply leaves him no other choice. 

Regis bids them to sit without a word, a single smooth gesture, his arm extending toward the couch at the small room's back wall. Prompto is quick to take a seat at the edge furthest from Clarus. His eyes remain big, take on a pleading quality, and Ignis can take the hint to put his own body between Prompto's and the king's. He thinks about their trip to Gladio's graduation, imagines the discomfort Prompto must have experienced over long hours in a car packed with royals. It might be amusing, in a better circumstance. Instead, he thinks of Gladio and he thinks of Noctis and he feels distinctly ill. His eyes lock to the floor when he's seated. They watch Prompto's foot bounce on linoleum, a quick and anxious tapping.

"Prompto? Would you like some?" Regis can cross the waiting area in two swift strides—even with his cane and his brace—and he does so, to fuss with the silver coffee dispenser stationed at the wall to Ignis's left. Prompto responds with a strangled noise, his head shaking. He tries to work out words—they jumble together with 'sir's and 'majesty's and only reinforce the idea of a boy who has lived a life where such proximity to a king was never anticipated.  _ Endearing,  _ Ignis thinks, in the same cold and distant way that he's thinking anything at all.

"Majesty, please, allow me—"

"—Sit." Regis's command is clear and perhaps louder than it need be when Ignis moves to take over responsibility at the station. Ignis does not stand, though he sits closer to the edge of his seat. He chances a look in Clarus's direction, but he too has taken to staring at the floor and Ignis finds himself following suit once more. "I'm not so feeble just yet." Regis adds, and it makes Ignis wince, perhaps needlessly. He finds a moment later a cup extended to him and the warmth rising from its lip similar to that behind the king's eyes when he offers it. Ignis takes it without hesitation, but not without noticing a brief tremble in Regis's grasp. Another distant realization, another concern for some other time. 

Regis pours himself a cup as well before he takes his seat at Ignis's side. A long moment follows where none of them speak. Prompto clings to the sofa arm, putting just as much distance between himself and anyone else as he can. Ignis doesn't think it's a conscious move and he can feel some distant sympathy, though he doesn't quite bring himself to speak on it. Regis, on the other hand, makes himself as comfortable as one can in the situation. He sinks deep against the cushions behind him and there is a sense of old bones creaking, exhaustion just barely staved off by complementary caffeine. 

"Noctis is in surgery." Regis answers their unspoken question before they have any chance to ask it. Ignis stares at his coffee, doesn't manage to sip from the sudden sour twisting in his stomach. Surgery. His mind begins to flip through outcomes with such limited information. His heart is racing, uncomfortable and caught in his throat. Prompto makes a noise, a squeak that gives full concept of his fear—something Ignis might have done himself, had he less training otherwise. "His life is not in immediate danger." The king's addition is welcome and it's some relief, if not enough to make the knots loose in Ignis's stomach. He thinks he can feel Prompto's grasp at the arm of the sofa release, but he doesn't glance over to confirm.

An injury to his leg, some potential damage to his back are explained only in vague terms. Perhaps the king is keeping something from them. Ignis doesn't think so, though. Ignis doesn't think Regis is doing anything more or less than what he is able. He is, to Prompto, perhaps to Clarus as well, the King of Lucis above anything else. Ignis's perspective is skewed, though. Ignis sees a father, perhaps not his own, but the closest he knows. He sees a father who is in the hospital, in some supposedly cozy cage, sipping at coffee and pretending that the very center of his world isn't currently a mess of pieces to be reassembled. 

Regis speaks a little about the injury, about things that either look worse than they are or look precisely as bad as they could be, about the fact that they just don't know quite yet. He speaks quietly and in a voice that is mostly steady, and it's impressive to Ignis given the man that he knows. It must be terrifying to Prompto, who still has all that wet swelling at the corners of his eyes when Ignis glances. Whatever effect it has on Clarus isn't apparent. Clarus, until Ignis finds his voice, doesn't respond to anything at all.

"What about Gladio?" Ignis asks the words only when Regis has said all there is to say about Noctis's condition. It's a difficult thing to wait through, a fact that he hadn't counted on. The relief that had come with the reassurance that Noct, at least on the very surface, would be okay had been a half-relief. With that much secured, his mind and his attention had turned directly to Gladio. And it was startling.

He can't keep his mind from how poorly their attempts—Gladio's attempts, more than his own—at reconciliation had been proceeding. He can't shake a harsh sinking, a horrible sense that this is the real elephant in the room. He can't swallow back the thick and heavy nothing in the back of his throat. He can't clear the fear from his lungs. He thinks about their trip, about the shopping trip that feels years rather than minutes behind him. He thinks about the hopes he had been harboring that, just maybe, they could fix some of this. He thinks about their singular meeting outside the gym, about Gladio's eyes fixed on him, the amusement in his voice, the way his body and his face had changed; the way Ignis hasn't been able to wipe from his mind a stretch of muscle peeking from an open shirt or fresh and swollen lines of feather etched into a photo on Prompto's phone. 

And when he manages to find his voice and ask that question, Clarus rises abruptly. He fixes a stare at Ignis, just for a moment, a heartbeat or two of consideration, before he looks to Regis.

"Majesty. If I might take my leave. The Glaives have the full hall secured by now, and I—"

"—Go. I'll call you if it's necessary." Regis makes a gesture toward the door and Clarus does not speak again. His eyes find Ignis's once more, stony and emotionless. There's a new tension down his jaw and stretching his throat and his head lowers when he lets himself out. The door snaps shut behind him, dampens whatever passes between the Shield and Glaives, deafens footsteps by the time three or four have fallen.

"Gladiolus has fared better." Regis's words are not ones that Ignis expected. They let the breath go out of him in a sigh and, suddenly and just for a moment, Ignis lets his mask slip. Clarus's reaction was not, Ignis would have guessed, one of a man whose son had fared better than anyone at all. "A few cuts and bruises. A concussion. He'll be held for the night and released, assuming nothing new presents."

Ignis nods once, though he finds himself frowning. So much for all the stone-faced indifference he had reached for. Inexplicably, his eyes burn even through that relief. He closes them and he sips the coffee and he tries not to splutter or choke on it when Prompto suddenly speaks.

"If Gladio's okay, why's his dad acting like he died?" It's a good question, Ignis must admit. The straightforward nature, the fact that Prompto can speak at all to the King—the fact that he can speak so bluntly—is shocking, though. Perhaps that's a relief all its own, given that it means Ignis can avoid dancing around words to ask the same. No, he wouldn't have asked at all. It isn't his place. It isn't  _ Prompto's  _ place either—even less so—but Prompto, bless him, doesn't know as much.

Regis allows himself a sigh his own. He looks, for his part, amused by Prompto's question; or, at least, amused by the way that he posed it. He leans forward, braces his elbows on his legs, cradles the coffee before him while he looks over, first to Ignis and then to Prompto.

"Clarus can be…  _ difficult _ ." There's a sort of bluntness there, too, that the king would not typically allow himself. Ignis wonders if the composition of this room—Prompto, so out of his depth and terrified and Ignis struggling for any sense of protocol—is more a relief than a worry when set in the opposite perspective. "He has no love for these walls, which doesn't help matters. He's a man set in tradition and pride."

Prompto only stares, and it's clear enough that Regis's words are a riddle to him. Ignis, on the other hand, thinks he understands. At very least, he thinks he is beginning to. He nods once, and tries to confirm. His voice only trembles a little bit, around the edges of his words.

"A Shield should never fare better than his liege." Ignis supplies. Prompto's face changes a little and Ignis thinks some sort of understanding might be falling into place, far from complete though it may be.

"Just so." Regis agrees with Ignis's statement. He smiles, that same kindness, that same familiar warmth settled behind his eyes. Ignis finds it a strange bit of comfort. He doesn't think Prompto has the means to see it quite the same.

"That's stupid." Prompto's words are more blunt still this time, and they startle Ignis enough that he looks up from his coffee, straightens his back further. He opens his mouth to speak, but Prompto—impossibly, unbelievably—goes on. "They weren't in a fight or something. How was Gladio supposed to protect Noct from an  _ accident _ ?" Again, Ignis is ready to speak up, to attempt an apology for Prompto. Regis, however, offers a short chuckle and a shake of his head. His hand goes to Ignis's shoulder and eases him back a little bit in the seat. He wonders over Regis just as much—perhaps more than—he does over Clarus. How does he manage to provide such comfort when Noctis is in such a condition? How does he temper his emotion so well without outright hiding it?

"I'm quite of the same mind. Clarus will get there, but it will take him some time." Ignis wonders whether the king is correct on that count. He considers Gladio's abrupt departure years back, Clarus's immediate and unshakeable insistence that he be sent away. It makes Ignis feel sick all over again now, while he glances again at the door that recently snapped shut, while he considered what exactly is ever going through Clarus's mind. It makes his chest hurt, too, in a new way. Prompto makes another sound, this one less of horror and closer to a sad acceptance. Ignis aches over as well. And he nearly stands outright, but when he makes the move, Regis squeezes his shoulder.

"He will have headed to the chapel." The explanation is, Ignis can accept at once, the most likely case. Had he even considered the thought that he might have gone to stand at Gladio's side? More of that sick feeling. More heat prickling at his eyes. He swipes at them with a free hand, pretending at an itch, and then he drains the little cup of coffee in a few scorching gulps. "I suspect you'll want to head to the third floor. The second room on the left, out of the elevator." Regis pauses in his directions and looks to Prompto. "You'll stay and keep an old man company, won't you?"

Ignis nearly volunteers himself for that role, but Prompto nods, his face set. Ignis… well, on second thought he isn't surprised at all. Prompto will want to see Noctis at the first opportunity. If anything, he's only shocked that the desire is strong enough to keep him alone in a room with the king. He does stand now, slowly, and giving a long look to Prompto and then Regis in turn.

"Thank you."

"Text me how he is, okay?" Prompto pipes up again, from where he's squirming and adjusting himself on the couch, trying to find comfort without Ignis's bodily barrier between him and Regis. Ignis nods, offers an 'of course', and he heads for the door himself without another word. He can't manage another moment in that room, not even if he wanted to. In his rush to retreat, in fact, he nearly forgets a quick and curt bow at the door, something that Regis waves off as he turns, but a bit of ceremony that cannot be ignored. 

Nyx—Ignis remembers the name this time, after just a few moments apart from the Glaive-turned-guide—gives direction down the hall to the elevators when Ignis asks. He remembers to thank him and he makes quick strides down the hall. A moment is spent, just a brief and questioning second, at the door to the hospital's chapel. He considers whether he should approach Clarus, whether there's anything to be gained from such a pursuit. In the end, he keeps walking, hearing the telltale chime of an elevator door opening just a few steps away. 

The ride is one in solitude, quick though it may be, and Ignis is grateful for that. He adjusts the identification badge fixed to his lapel and he otherwise spends the time braced against a railing at the back of the car. The anxiety is rising again, his heart thumping a pronounced and relentless staccato while his stomach drops through the lift. Perhaps the sensation would have been the same regardless of the scenario. He is, as it happens, walking into his first intentional meeting with Gladio in years.

His steps are markedly slower when he emerges on the third floor. He keeps his eyes fixed forward and he attempts that mask once more. He swipes his eyes again, lifting his glasses as he does so, and he makes a point of looking like he belongs. Nobody stops or questions him. Some small part wishes that someone might, that he may find any excuse to delay the moment to follow.

He could turn around, of course. He could leave the floor, leave the hospital. He could go back to the waiting room with Prompto and Regis and simply pretend he was turned away. Would they question it? Prompto would believe it readily. The king… well, Ignis can't imagine he would say a word, though the truth would be obvious enough. So close to a father and so far at the same time. Ignis tries to clear his mind. He finds one more Glaive stationed outside this room. A heavyset man who doesn't hide the frustration of such a dull—if still important—assignment. He is entirely unfamiliar to Ignis and, when he approaches the door, the man extends an arm across to stop him.

"No visitors." His greeting is curt, a little bit tired, but mostly betraying more of the same annoyance. Ignis isn't sure he can rightly blame him. Guarding hospital doors without so much as a partner to entertain can't be what one had in mind when enlisting in such a service. Still, Ignis feels his own spike of anger in response. He thumbs over the ID and tilts it in the man's direction.

"I'm in service of the Crown Prince." Ignis points it out aloud, as if the information isn't on the card itself. It earns him a grunt, briefly rolled eyes. The anger spikes again.

"And I'm in service of the King. No visitors. Shield's orders." Another sharp response. Ignis straightens himself some, as if he poses any threat, any hope of intimidation against such a man. His hands tighten to fists at his side and his eyes narrow.

"I was sent by the King." His voice raises, louder than it needs to be. It makes the Glaive smirk, which in turn makes the back of Ignis's neck prickle with heat. His pulse races more heavily still than it had just from the walk, just from the thought of being face-to-face with Gladio on more even terms. "I wonder which Shield gave this order, as I've just seen—"

"—Just let him in." The voice catches Ignis between the ribs, coming from inside the guarded room and nestling soundly in his chest. He knows the voice, though not intimately, not like he might have had things only gone differently over this handful of years. He realizes then how loud he's been, how much risk he's at of causing a scene. He's immediately grateful, ashamed, and a touch terrified. The arm before him drops and the Glaive resumes his position at the doorside, arms crossed against his chest now and eyes narrowed on Ignis.

"Cause a problem and I'll deal with it. Don't much care  _ who's  _ service you're in." The words are nothing less than a threat, and Ignis feels a sudden and inexplicable desire to rise to whatever challenge is issued with them. He passes shoulder-to-shoulder with the man when he moves to enter the room.

"Duly noted." He wants to think that his voice is even, bordering on dismissive with the words, but he can't convince himself as such. He can't apply an age to the Glaive, but he can easily say several years stand between them. And Ignis, seventeen and showing every inch of it, is harshly aware of the fact. The brink of confrontation, in any case, offers enough motivation to sweep into the room without further delay, without all the fear bundled up inwardly showing quite as clear as it might have. Silver linings, he tells himself.

He finds Gladio, as he might have expected, tethered in a sense to the room's singular bed. The amusement on his face hits Ignis first, and it settles into him in a strange way. More twisting in his gut. More prickling at his neck. He does what he can to set those sensations aside in favor of actually  _ looking  _ at his old friend. He's bandaged about his forehead and over his chest, which is otherwise bare. More twisting and prickling still at an expanse of muscles, interrupted by gauze medical tape and little wired pads, accented by fresh, dark ink.

"Just come here to stare?" Ignis's head shoots up at the jab and he realizes, with the burn spreading across his cheeks instead, that he has in fact been staring. A small sound escapes his throat, something resembling a denial only in the vaguest sense, likely only in his own mind. He sits, hands clutching at cheap wooden arms on the visitor's chair while he lowers himself, not loosing once he's seated. 

"I…" Ignis begins some form of explanation, but the words refuse to come to him. It's not a familiar sensation, except that with Gladio, it's becoming such. What, exactly, does he hope to say here? Ignis doesn't have to look at him to know that Gladio's eyes are on him, to realize that he can level the same accusation of staring without question.

"That's a joke. Don't tell me you completely lost your sense of humor." Ignis is aware, of course, that it's a joke. There are little sparks, at the back of his head, that remind him it's only the sort of teasing that comes naturally to Gladio. He nearly smiles for the nostalgia of it. Instead, he shakes his head and allows himself a sigh.

"I apologize if comedy isn't at the forefront of my mind. I thought—" Ignis hesitates, frowns. His hand moves of its own accord and grips the bed rail instead. Gladio's eyes follow the movement but he doesn't speak. "—your father made it seem like you were…" He doesn't need to complete the thought for Gladio to laugh, an entirely humorless sound in contrast to whatever good-natured barbs he had planned for Ignis.

"Wishful thinking on his part." Gladio's voice lowers and Ignis can't help but watch his eyes do the same. It tears at his heart in a way he wouldn't have expected and it takes the breath out of him. He should stop himself when his hand reaches for Gladio's, but he doesn't. His skin is cold, a little clammy. He doesn't swat Ignis away though, as he might have expected, though a brief confusion passes across his features.

"That's absurd." Ignis whispers. He mostly believes it, too. He doesn't think the king was wrong in saying that Clarus would come around, on the implication that his thoughts—his feelings, more accurately—were far from rational in the given moment. He finds himself squeezing Gladio's hand, trying to impart some warmth. And he finds himself surprised when Gladio squeezes back, not commenting on the gesture beyond reciprocation. 

"Is it? He ships me off for failing Noct, then I finally make it home and almost kill him. Not a great track record here."

"Noct is going to be fine." Ignis parrots the information offered to him in that short statement and he realizes, quite suddenly, that Gladio wasn't privy to it prior. He can see the way his shoulders sink back, tension relieving itself across his chest, releasing in a sigh that Ignis is familiar enough with himself. Why the hell does  _ that  _ hurt too? Why, more importantly, does he feel so compelled to take Gladio into his arms, to find some better way to soothe whatever all he's feeling just now?

"Good. That's...good." Gladio pauses, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against what excuse for a pillow the hospital has provided. "I didn't mean to get him hurt. I never meant for that to happen." There's a long pause before he makes the confession and when he does, his voice is thick with emotion. Ignis can't help but wonder if his eyes are closed against those feelings, against what they might be turning up.

"I know. I know you'd never hurt him." Ignis replies immediately and his voice is steadier than it's been since before they were summoned from their shopping into the hospital. He's surprised by it, though only briefly. The shock hasn't released him from its grip and his mind hasn't slowed, but it has focused. Focused on Gladio, who after all these years, he never wants to see suffer. Who, after so long claiming otherwise, he can't help but care for. The pangs in his chest are turning quickly from sympathy to regret. Why, he tries to remember, did he push him away in the first place? What sin was so severe that he's been harboring this grudge from so long? 

"Wouldn't have expected to hear that from you." Gladio's admission here hurts too, though not so much as when he draws his hand away in favor of running it through his hair. He groans, winces, presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and then forces them open, only to stare at the ceiling. "Didn't think you'd show up here. Not for me, I mean."  

Ignis doesn't know how to respond to that, which might be for the best as the breath leaves his lungs with the blow of the words. It's only fair, completely reasonable, that Gladio wouldn't think to see him here. He has, after all, made a staunch point of avoiding him for weeks. Except that this was all supposed to pan out differently today. He had mustered up his courage and broken down the bulk of his stubborn resistance. He had meant to go with Gladio, prepare for their trip, and to apologize. Gladio deserves a lot of things. He deserves family at his side, not playing at stoicism and disapproval. He deserves someone in a better position than Ignis to absolve him of whatever wrong he thinks he's done to turn the situation this way. And he deserves an apology, for years of mostly unwarranted bitterness that Ignis feels sick thinking about just now.

They remain in silence over those words and it stretches miles between them, more and more with each passing moment. Ignis tries for the right words, tries to find a way to make them sound good, to make Gladio believe them. And, he realizes, he's searching for a way to say them and somehow absolve  _ himself  _ of guilt as well. He frowns at the realization and he opts, instead of any of that, for the truth. It's more difficult a choice than he might have anticipated.

"I meant to apologize. Today, I mean. Before Prompto decided to  _ rescue  _ me from our plans." Still, Ignis chooses his words carefully. He tries to ignore the way Gladio's eyes widen just a little bit at the admission. He continues, pausing only for a breath. Pausing only for consideration of what state he might have been in, had those plans not been interrupted. "I've been…" Another pause, another grasp for words more kind to himself than true. He shakes away the urge again. "I've been awful, Gladio. I know that. I've been thinking about it. It's  _ all  _ I've been able to think about. You've done nothing but try to repair the damage I've done, and I've been holding onto this grudge over… I don't even know what it was over any more."

"Huh." Gladio's initial response leaves Ignis gripping at the bed rail again, has him staring, expectant, terrified. Gladio could simply send him away, could tell him that it's a bunch of bullshit, too little too late, and what argument would Ignis have to any of that? He swallows, a deep gulp of air that makes his stomach feel that much sicker.  _ Huh _ . What kind of response is Ignis meant to take  _ that _ as? "And you were gonna say that before I almost died?"

"You didn't almost die." Ignis's throat feels dry with those words. He can't honestly say he knows they're even true, though he's desperate to believe them. It makes Gladio smile, somehow. "And I was. I… might have intended to make myself sound a bit better, but I did intend to apologize." More honesty, and he finds it comes easier this time. Gladio holds his smile and, after a moment's consideration, his hand closes over Ignis's, still cool to the touch. 

"Probably for the best this way, then. I woulda given you a  _ lot  _ of shit. Still would now, if this headache wasn't so bad." His smile widens and Ignis, belatedly, recognizes this bit of teasing for what it is. And, against all odds, he smiles back. It's a weak little twitch of his lips, but it's something, and Gladio seems pleased by it.

"If you'd prefer, I can come back when you're feeling more combative." Ignis goes so far as to tease back. Another surprise, with the way Gladio's hand tightens around his and his face turns a shade more serious.

"Stay." Then he sighs again, turns his glance away though he doesn't relinquish his grip. "I hate this place, you know. Even now…" His voice trails off and Ignis shifts his hand, looses it from the rail so he can hold Gladio's properly. The idea that it should be awkward, that it feels strangely intimate, crosses his mind, but he can't quite hold onto the thought. He knows exactly how Gladio hates this place. The same as Clarus does. The same as they have for some years, and for quite the same reason. Ignis can remember waiting through Gladio's trips to his mother's sickbed. He can remember afternoons spent in silence in one of those private waiting rooms. He can remember agonized sobs into his shoulder, and for a moment, he's lost to it. Almost so much so that he can't hear Gladio continue. "Always been better, havin' you around too. If you don't mind, I mean."

The words hang between them for just a moment. Ignis shifts to scoot his chair closer and he squeezes Gladio's hand again.

"I don't mind."                        


End file.
